


Darkest Night

by SeeBeeStrellacott



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Violence, Case Fic, Don't worry there will be an, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fate & Destiny, It's a little dark, Mysteries Galore, Mythology References, Paranormal, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, canon references, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 54,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeBeeStrellacott/pseuds/SeeBeeStrellacott
Summary: Strike is cursed and there's only one person who can save him, but at what cost?An alternate universe where myths and legends are real, and nothing is what it seems.
Relationships: Charlotte Campbell Ross/Cormoran Strike, Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Matthew Cunliffe/Robin Ellacott, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 226
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to @hidetheteaspoons for beta-ing this monstrosity and helping me work out the confusing maze that is the plot.

Prologue

_Pain. It engulfed him, invaded his mind, overwhelmed his senses. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t speak. Every nerve in his body was on fire. He would have gladly pulled his own heart from his chest if only the pain would end. His leg burned, as if hot coals flowed through his veins, radiating from the bite wound on his leg._

_Through the delirium and the fog of agony, he saw a face looming above him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that he knew the face, that he loved the face._

_“Corm?”_

_Gentle hands fluttered over his body as a command was spoken above him, “Get him to the tent!”_

_“Stay with me, Bluey.” A soft hand squeezed his own._

_More voices._

_“Captain, his leg – he’s been bitten.”_

_Another command, quieter, “Cut it off!”_

_“Captain, we don’t know that will work.”_

_“He’s dead either way! We have to try. Do it!”_

_A soft voice in his ear, “I’m sorry, Bluey. It’s the only way. But I’m here with you.”_

_Pain, unimaginable, unbearable pain as the venom continued to spread. It finally took him, dragging him under, until all he could see was darkness._

* * *

Chapter 1

Robin ascended the stairs of Denmark Street, filled with an excitement she hadn’t felt since her first day of uni. She didn’t know much about the office or the man she was about to meet, other than he was a private detective. Robin had scoured the internet and social media, of course, looking for anything about the business she was so keen to join, but she had come up empty-handed. There was no website, no Facebook, no news articles, not even an address, nothing. The only reason she had the address was from the temp agency. As excited as she was to explore the world of detecting, she had to wonder just how much business the man could possibly do if there was no way to attract potential clients. There hadn’t even been a sign outside. 

Facing the door labeled “C. B. Strike Private Detective,” Robin could hear voices coming from the other side. She paused with her hand on the handle, unsure whether she should enter; she couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the voices sounded angry. Then a single phrase, practically shouted from a deep baritone voice, reached her ears, “No! I told you, I won’t use it that way!”

Robin took a deep breath and pushed the door open, knocking on the frame as she did so.

Two faces turned to look at her, one appearing angry and alarmed, the other seeming mildly amused. Robin first took in the amused face, belonging to the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The woman was tall and slender, with shining black hair and flawless skin. Though the woman’s skin was extremely pale, a radiant glow shone from her face, almost like a halo. Her cheeks were a lovely, healthy pink, and her lips stretched into a smile that added a mischievous glint to her eyes. The other face was a sharp contrast to the first. Whereas the woman looked healthy and good-humored, the man looked ill-tempered and, well… possibly just _ill_. His skin was also pale, but lacked the healthy pink glow of the woman’s. His eyes were dark and slightly sunken behind his sallow cheeks, and he was clearly angry. He scowled, or rather glowered, at Robin as she entered, evidently perturbed at having been interrupted.

Nevertheless, he politely greeted her, “Can I help you?” His voice was deep and carried only a trace of the irritation still clear in his expression.

The woman was still grinning at Robin, which she found slightly disconcerting; her grin was almost malicious in a way. As such, Robin stammered slightly as she said, “I-I’m from the temp agency. I’ve been assigned to your office.”

“Well, I can see you’ve got enough on your plate for now,” the gorgeous woman said slowly. She gathered her jacket and took a few steps towards the door, pausing next to Robin. She stood alarmingly close, so much so that Robin could feel the woman’s breath brushing across her neck. The woman’s nostrils flared and her grin stretched into a wide smile. Far from softening her face, the smile sent a shiver down Robin’s spine; there was something almost esurient in the curve of the woman’s lips.

“Love your perfume,” the woman said to her. “It’s just _delicious_.” She turned to the man and her grin widened impossibly further as she said, “Enjoy.” With a sharp turn of her heel, the woman strode out the door and down the stairs.

Robin looked apprehensively at the man, who stood staring blankly at her. Finally, something seemed to click into place as he said, “I think there’s been a mistake. I cancelled the request for a temp.”

Robin hitched a smile onto her face, refusing to be deterred. “Apparently they missed your message.” 

The man seemed to consider for a moment, then heaved a heavy sigh as he limped towards the fake leather sofa. He flopped ungracefully onto the cushions, which emitted rather unflattering noises, and extended his hand, “Yeah, OK. I suppose I could use the help. Name’s Cormoran Strike.”

His hand was cool, his skin smooth and firm. As their hands touched, Robin felt a slight shock. Strike must have felt it as well, as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I’m Robin. Robin Ellacott.”

Strike’s polite smile slipped for just a moment, a shadow of doubt and fear flickering across his face, before he hauled himself back up from the sofa to show her to her desk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously....  
> Robin meets a sickly looking Strike and a slightly creepy Charlotte after the temp agency mistakenly sends her to Denmark Street.

The first thing Strike had noticed was the fiery red-gold gleam of her hair. He had encountered that shade a few times before, but never had it held the pull or the power that it held for him now. Strike knew the blue-gray color he would see when he looked in her eyes; he knew what pink he would see on her lips, the freckles on her cheeks. He knew her face because he had seen it before. Or _foreseen_ it, rather. 

It was her scent that had first alerted him. It was a scent he had smelled only once before, long ago. It was a scent that he both loved and loathed – loved because of what it awoke within him and the possibilities it held; loathed because of what the prophecy foretold.

***

_Strike sat in the wampum on a pad of furs. The shaman murmured foreign words over him, his voice like a rhythmic drum as he wafted the strange smoke over Strike’s body with a feather. It filled his nostrils and overwhelmed his senses, making him feel a little lightheaded and dizzy. The feather beat softly over his head and his outstretched palms, sweeping up and down his forearms and over his face. The steady rhythm of the shaman’s voice and the feather ghosting over his skin lulled Strike into a trance. As the strange smoked clouded his mind, the world faded around him, to be replaced by strange images._

_He was in a room – a very different room than the one in which he was currently sitting. It held all manner of objects he had never seen before. He looked down at his body and didn’t recognize his own clothing._

_The door opened and in walked an angel. Her hair shone like a halo in a color Strike had never seen before. Her face was stunning, with pale blueish-gray eyes and rosy lips, a smattering of freckles tracing over her nose and cheeks. She smiled and Strike felt a strong pull in his chest. Her scent wafted towards him, musky and warm - with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite place, something that reminded him of sunshine and happiness - and a fire ignited within him. A need the likes of which he had never felt crashed over him. He needed to touch her, to taste her, to feel her filling all of his senses at once. He needed her flowing through his veins, possessing his mind, body, and soul._

_The ache in his chest strengthened until it became actual, physical pain. A searing heat brought him abruptly to the present. A current of white-hot flame licked a shape over his heart, burning into his flesh. He ripped the shirt from his chest and clawed at his skin as he screamed and writhed in agony._

_Abruptly the pain ceased. Panting heavily, Strike looked down at his chest. Evident even through the thick mat of hair was the outline of a songbird, directly over his heart._

_The shaman pointed to it and then to Strike’s face and murmured, “Ahani wili ulisdv nihi agvhaliha ale adanedi nihi vlenidohv. Ale nihi wili ulisdv uwasvageyv.”_

This one will end your curse and give you life. And you will end hers.

***

And now, here she was, standing in his office. His angel, the woman of his first-ever vision. The woman who could give him life. The woman he would have to kill.

At first, he didn’t believe it. He thought that maybe the vision wouldn’t come to pass, or that he could change it somehow. But he lost hope with every vision he had had since, as one by one they had all come true.

He tried to reason with himself – she’s just another human. He had taken human lives before, many of them, and regularly; she would be no different. But he didn’t enjoy killing, he hated it actually, which was how he had come to meet the shaman in the first place. But if it meant that his curse would finally be lifted, surely one human life was worth the sacrifice? For the greater good?

And so, he had long ago decided that when he finally came face to face with his angel, he would accept the gift of her sacrifice and live the rest of his days as a human. But he hadn’t been prepared for just how beautiful she was, or how alluring her scent was. His vision had been but a pale reflection of reality. Now that he had seen her, he wasn’t sure he could follow through. What kind of monster would he be if he ended the life of this innocent woman for his own selfish needs? On the other hand, how many more lives would be lost if he didn’t?

All of this had passed through his mind in a matter of seconds. He had wanted to turn her away, but her _smile_ … He was inexplicably drawn to her presence. He wondered vaguely if it was the voice of fate speaking in his ear that had made him ask her to stay. And after all, his visions _always_ came true. Therefore, he reasoned that the shaman’s prophecy must also come true. There was no avoiding it. 

He questioned that decision to allow her to stay, however, the moment his skin touched hers. A current of electricity had flowed through her skin to his, coiling around his hand and up his arm, tracing a path around his bird mark. And then she had spoken her name. _Robin_. His bird had pulsed, like a heartbeat, reminding him of what he didn’t have. The mark continued thumping its rhythm until he retreated to his inner office, away from her scent and her beauty, and most alarmingly, away from the sound of her pulse beating in time with his bird.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike met the woman he is destined to kill, based on a prophecy made when he received the songbird mark on his chest.

A potential client came in late morning on Robin’s first day. She wondered if she would be able to sit in on the meeting, but was disappointed when Strike closed the door to his inner office. Perhaps she would learn more after the meeting was finished. _Or perhaps I’ll just be asked to answer the phones_ , she thought glumly. Although, the phone hadn’t rung once since she had arrived. In the meantime, she opened and sorted the mail, emptied the bin, straightened up a bit, and familiarized herself with the client forms and filing system.

Sometime later, Strike emerged from his office. “Robin, could you make up a client agreement for Mrs. Perry? They’re over-“ He stopped short of showing Robin where to find the forms, as she had already turned and taken one from the neat and orderly pile. Strike looked at her appraisingly, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Would you like a cup tea?” Robin asked as she started filling out the form.

“I’ll get it,” Strike said, and Robin noticed that he was still limping.

Strike made himself and Robin a cup of perfectly strong tea, Mrs. Perry having declined. The forms were quickly signed and payment arrangements made, and Strike promised his new client that he would be round later to take his initial observations.

Strike watched Robin surreptitiously over the rim of his mug. His bird was pulsing once more, now that he was back in Robin’s presence. It beat its staccato rhythm against his chest as his emotions warred within him. In one moment, he was resigned to his fate and hers; in the next, he found himself reasoning that he hadn’t killed anyone in a long time, maybe he didn’t need to end this innocent woman’s life. He had found, not a _balance_ , but a workaround to his condition. It kept him alive, but it did nothing for the quality of his life. His knee ached almost constantly, he couldn’t sleep, his skin was pallid and dull, and he felt weak. He knew that he could call Nick at any time for “medicine” as he called it, but he didn’t like using his friends that way.

His life truly was a curse. His condition affected those around him, even if he fought his darkest impulses. And now, Charlotte was back, urging him to use his gifts. But he wasn’t strong enough to use those gifts, and even if he were, he still wouldn’t, not like that. He knew what Charlotte wanted, and she knew how he felt about ending _any_ life. He didn’t want to be part of this world anymore. And that was why he needed to end his curse. That was why he had to kill Robin.

But the beating of his bird mark was awakening something within him. It warmed his chest and made him feel _alive,_ a feeling only achieved when he engaged in… _activities_ he preferred not to engage in. The beating of his bird also made him feel _hungry_. But this was a new hunger, one he was unfamiliar with. He wanted her flesh in more ways than one. He longed to touch her skin again and see if that electric zing was still there. What would it be like to feel that current along his entire body? Would it ripple across his tongue as he tasted her?

He needed a cigarette. And food. And alcohol. Quick, before he took her right there on her desk. 

“Do you want to grab some lunch before going round to Mrs. Perry’s?” Strike asked. 

Robin was surprised and thrilled at being included. “Yes, I am a bit hungry,” she said. “Do I need to bring anything with me?”

Strike had turned toward the door and was in the middle of shrugging on a large coat. “Yeah, grab a notebook if you would. You can help me take notes on what we find.”

Strike knew that he didn’t really need to bring Robin with him, but he was also drawn to her presence. He had thought that retreating into his office away from her would help him focus, but it had actually had the opposite effect. The beating of his bird mark, while disconcerting at first, was something of a balm against his cold and hardened soul. And he was feeling especially weak today. Acknowledging that it was probably a bad idea to spend more time than necessary with the woman he would inevitably kill, he invited her with him, unable to resist the pull of her scent and the warmth that spread from his bird when she was near.

As soon as they were outside, Strike lit a cigarette and took a long, grateful pull, allowing the nicotine to numb his mouth and overwhelm his taste buds. He turned up the collar of his coat and snuggled into it, tucking his hands into his pockets before setting off towards the pub. 

Robin watched him out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t an especially cold day. She was perfectly happy with a light jacket. But as she saw her new boss retreat into the folds of the large coat, she wondered if he was perhaps ill. He certainly _looked_ sickly enough, with his pale, almost gray skin. And he was still limping.

“Did you injure your leg?” she asked.

“Not recently, no. Still gives me trouble sometimes,” Strike said dismissively as they reached the welcoming atmosphere of the Tottenham. 

Strike ordered their drinks and food as Robin found a table. As Strike limped over carrying a pint of Doom Bar and a white wine, Robin caught a glimpse of the metal ankle under the rustle of his trousers. _So that explains the limp_ , she thought.

Strike took an appreciative pull from his pint, allowing the alcohol to quench his thirst. Well, not _quench_ exactly, but _dull_. When their food arrived, he tucked into his burger enthusiastically. As with the alcohol, food didn’t fully satiate his hunger, but it did reduce the cravings. He was grateful for that, at least. Others of his kind couldn’t obtain any sustenance through regular food, but he could, thanks to his gift from the Cherokee; his bird. Food didn’t give him all the nutrients he needed, that’s what his “medicine” was for, but it did allow him to go longer in between “treatments.” And it made it less likely that he would descend into a murderous rage. It did nothing, however, for the cold emptiness in his chest.

Strike bit into his burger and relished the soothing pressure against his teeth and gums. That was the other benefit of eating human food – it eased the ache in his gums, much as a teething baby chews on his fingers.

Strike ate with gusto until most of his burger was gone, then remembered that he should probably brief Robin on the case they were about to investigate. 

“Our new client thinks she has a ghost in her attic. So we’re just going to have a look around and see what we find. You can take notes, and then we’ll create a file for them when we get back to the office.”

Robin was surprised that he had taken such a case. She had assumed it would be different, like solving crimes or something, but maybe he was one of those paranormal investigators?

“A ghost? Have you come across anything like that before?” she asked cautiously, not wanting to cause offense.

Strike huffed a laugh. “Of course not, ghosts are bollocks.”

“Then why – “

“Why did I take her case?”

Robin nodded.

“It’s not a ghost in her attic, but I do believe there might be something or some _one_ up there. The types of noises she heard, objects being moved, that kind of thing. So I think it might be worth checking out. She’s recently divorced, has nobody else at home,” Strike added in explanation.

As Robin took a drink of her wine, Strike noticed the engagement ring on her finger. _Well, that complicates things_ , he thought to himself. If she has someone at home, someone who cares about her, someone who would notice if she goes missing…

***

Strike knocked on the door of Mrs. Perry’s house, or Casper, as he had decided to call her. She stood back as she invited them inside, looking anxious but excited. Robin looked at the woman with fresh eyes, knowing now that she believed a ghost was living in her attic and that the man she had hired could help rid her of it. What Robin had initially thought of as a frumpy, dowdy personal style, she now saw as more of a bohemian charm. The woman was small and petite, likely in her late fifties. Robin agreed that it was probably wise for her to seek the help of someone much stronger if there was indeed someone living in her attic.

Casper pointed them towards the attic and planted herself on the sofa, refusing to get any closer to her “ghost.” Strike strode slowly to the center of the attic room, taking in his surroundings. He crouched in an empty corner, touched his hand to the floor, and closed his eyes. Robin wondered if he was resting; he looked so tired and weak. But suddenly he stood and said, “I think there was a bed here. Someone has been sleeping here.”

Robin didn’t ask how he knew, but she jotted it down in the notebook and continued to watch him work. She couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was looking for, but he would occasionally close his eyes as he examined some part of the room, an almost pained expression on his face. Once or twice he bent his head closer to some object. Robin sketched the layout of the room and marked the places where he seemed to discover some clue. Back in the center of the room, he stood quite still and closed his eyes once more. He stood immobile, brow furrowed as if in concentration. After a moment, he swayed slightly and Robin stopped herself from going to him to see if he needed support.

Strike strained to use his gifts. His strength had waned, as he hadn’t had a “treatment” in over a week. But he was certain that he felt the warmth of a human presence on the floor in the corner. He could smell the recent touch of a human (that was not his client) on several objects. He tried to reach out to the near future, hoping for a face, but all he could see was a shadowy presence. He strained further, willing the vision to become clear, but the effort was too much. He felt himself sway, dizzy and weak, and opened his eyes. All he had seen was a man, but no face. He had, however, gotten a clearer sense of the man’s scent.

“Are you alright?” Robin asked, looking in concern at her boss.

“Fine,” he said, though he didn’t look it. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and he looked somehow even paler than before. “I think we’re done here for now.”

“Is there anything you want me to note?” Robin asked.

Strike wondered how much he should tell her. “I think a man is or has been staying here.”

“Really? What makes you think that?” Robin couldn’t see anything remarkable about the attic.

“There are some definite signs,” Strike said, though he didn’t elaborate. 

Robin looked around the room again, wondering what she could possibly be missing.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

 _We._ Strike liked that little word more than he should, and reminded himself once again that he shouldn’t allow himself to get close to this woman, even as his little bird urged him to do exactly that. _Do it_ , it thumped. _Get closer_. 

“I have a theory,” Strike said. “Now we just need surveillance to prove it.”

Downstairs, Strike asked Mrs. Perry, or Casper, a few more questions about what times she would hear the ghost, what kind of noises would she hear and where she would hear them. Most bizarrely, he asked if he could have something of her husband’s. 

“Anything that he’s used or touched would be fine,” the detective said.

If Mrs. Perry thought this was an odd request, she didn’t let it show as she hurried off to retrieve her ex-husband’s hairbrush. Strike thanked her and put it in his pocket, indicating to Robin that they were done there. 

He once again lit a cigarette as soon as they reached the pavement outside, desperate for some relief after being locked with Robin in the enclosed space of the attic. He turned up the collar of his coat, once again baffling Robin. The sunlight that occasionally streamed through the clouds actually felt quite nice as it warmed her skin. 

As they set off towards the tube, Robin noticed that his limp was even more pronounced now. Just as she considered suggesting they take a cab, the toe of his false foot caught on a crack in the pavement and he stumbled. Robin was a step in front of him and turned just in time to catch him before he tumbled to the ground. He crashed into her and their arms reflexively wrapped around each other, both trying to steady the other.

Their faces ended up close together, almost as if they were wrapped in a hug. Strike’s breath caught as a wave of her heady aroma filled his senses. He just managed to stifle the growl that threatened to erupt from deep in his throat. His hands dropped to her waist, and he turned his head slightly towards her. Her neck was tantalizingly close to his lips. Robin’s pulse quickened at their proximity, adding to Strike’s agony. Her hands came around to grasp his lapels as she pulled back to look into his eyes. His eyes were dark and swam with that same confusing mixture of fear and doubt she found hard to interpret.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Strike simply nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth at the moment. Neither of them pulled away, and as Robin was locked in his gaze, she could have sworn that his eyes visibly darkened. There was a hint of a deep reddish color around his irises. Robin’s breath caught and she instinctively inclined her head and parted her lips. Strike’s gaze flicked downwards to her mouth and then her neck. He clenched his teeth tightly together and blinked, shaking his head as if brushing off an annoying fly.

“Should we get a taxi?” Robin asked, as Strike still hadn’t answered her. 

“No,” he ground out, not wanting to be locked in the back of a car with her. He took a step forward, but his weakened knee gave out beneath him and he stumbled into Robin again. 

“Here, use me,” Robin said as she wrapped one of his large arms around her shoulder, her own arm tucking around his waist. 

They limped along the pavement a ways, Strike barely able to put any weight on his stump. He didn’t object this time when Robin stopped and hailed a taxi. Strike turned his face towards the window and tucked his chin into his coat, trying to find some relief from Robin’s delectable scent. He never should have invited her with him today. He was dangerously close to losing all control. He was fairly certain that she had seen the predator in his eyes. And yet, she had tucked herself under his arm, willingly putting herself _closer_ to him. And now she was sitting next to him, watching him, concerned for _him_. 

The only reason he hadn’t taken her right there on the street was the gentle thumping of his bird mark. Though he was becoming increasingly desperate to taste her, the warmth from his mark was also increasing his desire to protect her. The steady beating of his mark gave him the strength to resist her allure. But he worried what he might do when she was away and the bird no longer thumped in time with her pulse.

When they reached Denmark Street, Robin again tucked herself under his arm to help him into the building. She was patient as she helped him climb laboriously up the stairs to his flat above the office. His progress was painfully slow, and he had to stop several times for rest. He was sweating profusely by the time they reached his tiny flat. Strike flopped into his chair and unfastened his prosthesis with a groan. Robin watched him covertly as she fetched him a glass of water, but said nothing as he massaged his knee and stump. 

“Can I get you anything else?” Robin asked.

Strike sighed and said reluctantly, “Yeah. In the fridge, there’s a wine bottle.”

Robin found the bottle in his fridge, wondering if alcohol was really the best idea in his condition, but again she said nothing. There was less than a glass left in the bottle, which had no label of any kind. She handed him the bottle and a glass that had been resting in the drainage rack by the sink. 

“Thank you, Robin. You can leave early for the day. We’ll sort the notes for Casper tomorrow,” Strike said, tipping the bottle to empty the dark liquid into the glass. 

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” she hesitated, then added, “Should you see a doctor, maybe?”

Strike gave her a pained smile, “I’m alright, I’ve got my medicine,” and he raised his glass to her. 

Robin quashed the judgments that threatened to form in her mind and nodded her head, closing the door shut behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike takes Robin with him to investigate a possible ghost haunting, struggling with multiple desires in her presence. After using his gifts to investigate the ghost, a weakened Strike is helped home by Robin.

_“Come on, Bluey, join me.”_

_Charlotte raised her head to look up at him, a trickle of blood sliding down the corner of her mouth. She wiped at it with her thumb, and looking deeply into his eyes, held it to his lips. Strike sucked her thumb into his mouth, letting the salty tang coat his tongue. His eyes darkened, his irises ringed in red. Charlotte smiled and brushed back the hair of the young kitchen maid, exposing her throat. Strike dipped his head down to the girl’s neck, his lips fastening over the bite wound._

***

Strike drained his glass, reflecting on that first time he had tasted human blood. It had been exhilarating, intoxicating, an existential moment in time. It had also been the darkest night of his life.

Charlotte had brought the young maiden to their home for when Strike had Awoken. He had been reluctant at first, but he was fascinated as he watched Charlotte wrap her lips around the girl’s neck, as he heard her teeth sink into the flesh. And then he smelled it, the blood. It was as if he was smelling the girl’s essence, her soul, her life force. And when he had tasted it, he felt the girl’s strength course through his veins. It awakened a monster within him, a fiend, a demon that demanded he consume the girl’s life and feel the power of her spirit flowing through him. He had never felt more alive – ironic, considering he had just died. 

Strike drank from the girl until her pulse faded completely to nothing. Drunk on the girl’s essence, on the power of consuming a life, he and Charlotte had made love into the wee hours of the morning.

Strike now stared moodily into his empty glass, completely dissatisfied with his meager ration. Feeling something close to shame, he licked the inside of the glass clean, chasing every drop. He always mixed the blood with wine to stretch it further. It didn’t taste the same as fresh, not least of which because it was cold and a month old, but the wine made it more filling. It may fool his stomach, but it didn’t fool the rest of his body. The pain in his knee had lessened somewhat, but it was by no means mended. Though he was no longer dizzy, he still felt weak. He knew he could call Nick for a refill, but if he was being honest with himself, what he really wanted was an actual vein to sink his teeth into. The ache in his gums was the equivalent of being aroused without being able to find release. 

He thought of Robin and the memory of her scent engulfed him. Strike growled and grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone.

***

Robin was opening the door on Denmark Street the next morning when a deep voice behind her greeted her, “Morning.”

Robin jumped, not having heard anyone approach. “Hiya,” she said, turning to face her boss. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and she noticed that he looked healthier. Some color had returned to his face, his cheeks looked fuller, and he wasn’t limping. Robin also noticed that he wasn’t snuggled into the coat he was carrying over his shoulder, despite the day being cooler than the previous. 

Strike could see Robin looking him over, but she didn’t comment on his improved appearance, or the fact that he was obviously just getting home from a night out.

They climbed the stairs to the office, Strike continuing on to his flat and announcing over his shoulder that he would be down in a minute. Robin was still starting up her computer when he returned, still buttoning up a fresh shirt. She caught a glimpse of what looked like a tattoo on his chest. He smiled at her warmly, his mood clearly improved since yesterday. This caused a flush to creep across Robin’s cheeks. 

Strike watched the lovely pink spread under her freckles, bringing forth a fresh wave of her heavenly scent. It awakened the same feelings as yesterday, even though he had just fed last night. He looked at her curiously, wondering why her scent affected him so strongly. Perhaps it was because of the prophecy?

Robin looked away, slightly embarrassed by his lingering gaze; or rather, embarrassed by what it made her feel. She had a fiancé at home, after all. 

“Would you like some tea?” Robin asked as Strike sat on the sofa instead of going through to his office. 

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Robin set the kettle going and rummaged in the small kitchenette for mugs and spoons.

“Biscuits, where are the biscuits?”

“On the left,” Strike said, realizing too late that Robin hadn’t spoken out loud. He hurried to fix his mistake. “There’s biscuits, I mean. On the left.” He studied her face as she brought over his mug and biscuit tin. If she had thought his statement was odd, she didn’t show it. He would need to be more careful. He forgot how much stronger his senses were after feeding, and her “voice” had been especially loud.

“So what are we doing today?” Robin asked.

“Need to see if we can get any clues off Casper’s ex-husband’s hairbrush, and we need to set up a surveillance schedule. Are you able to work evenings at all, or…”

“Yes!” Robin interrupted, eager to learn detective skills.

“It won’t be a problem with your –“ he hesitated, “fiancé?”

Robin paused for a moment. She hadn’t considered what Matt would think about her working evenings, but surely he would understand? She had always dreamed of doing detective work.

“No, not a problem at all,” Robin said.

“Good. We shouldn’t need to do anything too complicated for this case. We’ll go together this evening and then once you get a feel for it we can trade off.”

Robin nodded in agreement and sipped on her tea. Strike pulled the hairbrush out of his pocket and stood. “Now to see what I can get off of this.” And he walked to his inner office without inviting Robin to join him, his gait unaltered by the limp that had plagued him the day before.

***

Strike sat at his desk and closed his eyes, hairbrush in hand, and focused. A clear image of a face filled his mind. The man walked in shadows towards Casper’s house, unlocked the garden gate, and slunk inside. The man crept in the back door, which was unlocked, and softly padded up the stairs to the attic, skipping over the creaky step in the middle. Strike strained to determine a time or a date. _Three days from now._

He opened his eyes. That would give him two full evenings of uninterrupted time with Robin. He smiled, and the little bird on his chest fluttered. 

The fluttering strengthened, and Strike was inexplicably filled with a sudden concern for Robin. He walked out of his inner office to find Charlotte hovering over Robin’s desk, leaning in close to admire her dragonfly necklace. Robin looked alarmed and uncomfortable, and Strike realized the fluttering of his bird mark was Robin’s pulse accelerating. But its erratic rhythm slowed and steadied when she saw him.

Charlotte straightened up and turned, expectant. “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

“No, I said everything there is to say yesterday. And Robin and I have an appointment to get to.”

Robin immediately stood from her desk and gathered her things. Strike held the door open for Charlotte, who hesitated before walking through it. “I do hope you’ll reconsider,” she said. 

“You know where I stand,” Strike said with a scowl.

Charlotte ran a hand seductively over his shoulder and grinned. “You know how persuasive I can be,” she purred next to his ear. Robin looked away and busied herself with her notebook and jacket.

“You’re looking well,” Charlotte said almost mockingly. “And so is she,” she added in an undertone. “Bye, Bluey.” She floated down the stairs and Strike silently motioned for Robin to wait until they heard the outer door close.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike reflects on his first experience with human blood. In the office, Strike uses his gifts to get clues about the "ghost" they are investigating, and receives an unwelcome visit from Charlotte.

“Our appointment isn’t actually for a couple of hours. I just wanted to get rid of _her,_ ” Strike said, inclining his head towards the door. “Are you hungry? I haven’t had breakfast.”

“Not particularly.”

“I’m just going to pop down to the café, do you want anything? Coffee?”

“Coffee would great,” Robin smiled at him.

Robin watched him from the window, secretly hoping for some clue as to who the gorgeous woman was. Strike obviously had a history with her. From their brief encounter, Robin had found her terribly intimidating. She carried herself with a self-assurance that had made Robin feel dull and weak by comparison. But Robin was left wondering still, as the woman was nowhere in sight.

Strike walked to a café and ordered three bacon rolls and a coffee for Robin. He devoured one of the rolls on his way back to the office, saving the other two for more civilized eating. Instead of taking the rest of his breakfast to his inner office, he settled into the flatulent sofa so that he could watch Robin enjoying her coffee. He enjoyed watching her a little more than was advisable, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was a beacon of light in the darkness of his world. Her presence calmed him and he felt… _happy_ when she was near. Was this part of his curse? That he would have to kill the woman that made him feel this way?

A small voice in his head told him to just get it over with, instead of dragging it out like this. It was awfully masochistic to come to like her before killing her. But another voice, a stronger voice, said that he didn’t really know how to end the curse. Was it as simple as ending her life, or was there more… _ceremony_ involved? He suspected the latter, given his experiences with the Cherokee shaman. In the meantime, perhaps it would be useful to get to know her. Maybe it would give him some clue as to how she was the key to ending his curse.

He wanted to know why his little bird thumped in time with her pulse. He wanted to know why it felt warm against his skin when she was near. He wanted to know why her scent aroused more than just his hunger. His desire to taste her had morphed from simply wanting to drink from her to wanting to know the flavor of her lips and her skin, and _other_ areas he didn’t allow himself to think about.

Strike unwrapped his second bacon roll. Much as he wanted to stuff the entire roll in his mouth, he forced himself to eat slowly, allowing his teeth the satisfaction of sinking into something solid over and over again, soothing at least one aspect of his arousal.

“Did you find out anything about the hairbrush?” Robin asked as he ate. She wondered what he was going to do with it. Perhaps he had a friend that could run some forensics work?

“Yeah, I got a face. There’s definitely a man staying in her attic. I have a theory, but we still need some evidence to give the client.”

Robin was starting to wonder just what kind of detective her boss was. How did he find out a face from a hairbrush? Did he think himself a clairvoyant? Was he scamming his clients?

“Are you going to tell me?” she asked.

Strike smiled but didn’t answer. “See if you can work it out for yourself. Call it part of your training.”

Determined to prove herself, Robin racked her brain, trying to piece together the almost nonexistent clues. Strike smiled at the frown that pulled at her mouth and unwrapped his third bacon roll.

Frustrated, Robin changed the subject. “I hope I’m not overstepping here, but I thought it might be a good idea to make a website for the agency. I have a couple of samples here.” 

Robin indicated her computer screen and Strike heaved himself off the sofa to come around her side of the desk. Leaning over her shoulder to see her computer monitor, Strike caught a strong whiff of the scent rising from her neck. He was immensely thankful for the bacon roll, and narrowly managed to stifle a moan as his teeth sank into its solid mass once more. 

He had to admit, the website samples were very well done. They were tasteful and professional, and a good way to expand his business.

“Did you do these?” he asked.

Robin nodded sheepishly. With his general surly demeanor, she couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not.

“These are really good,” and he sounded genuinely impressed. “I like this one.” He indicated the second mockup she had shown him. It was a stylish design of charcoal grey, light blue, and white, showing the phone number and address for the office, as well as a short bio with his professional history. There wasn’t much in the bio, since he hadn’t told her much about himself, but Strike was impressed that she had not included a photo. Anonymity was paramount in his line of work.

“I thought I could add a section for what kind of cases you take?”

“The paying kind,” he joked. “I think what you’ve got here is enough. Good work.” Robin beamed under his crinkly-eyed gaze.

“You finish getting that sorted and we’ll leave for the new client meeting around noon. We can grab lunch on the way.”

Robin suppressed a grin. The man seemed to be insatiable – it was already nearly ten o’clock and he had just eaten at least a couple of bacon rolls.

***

At half-past noon, Robin gathered her notebook, bag, and jacket. Strike held the door for her to pass, taking a deep inhale of her scent that wafted up to him. He smiled and leaned closer, even as the hunger stirred within him. He had never smelled anything like her before, and he couldn’t seem to get enough. She was a unique bouquet of sunlight and warmth, musk, roses, leather, and vanilla. She was the earth, fresh and green and soft. He wanted to wrap himself in a cocoon of her perfume. She was awakening emotions within him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time, longer than he could remember, even before Charlotte. Unfortunately, her aroma was also arousing his teeth. He really shouldn’t allow himself to indulge in her scent like this. 

Strike once again lit a cigarette as soon as they were outside, and pulled on it as if it alone contained the oxygen his lungs required. He didn’t bring his coat today and seemed perfectly comfortable despite the chill breeze. Robin hugged her jacket more tightly around her. When the clouds shifted and sunlight streamed down upon them, both inclined their heads, relishing the warmth on their faces.

Robin wondered what had caused such a drastic change in his appearance in the last 24 hours. He didn’t seem like a drunk, and he certainly didn’t look like he had been out on a bender all night. Although, he _had_ asked her to bring him a bottle of wine yesterday evening… But of course, it might not have been wine at all, Robin reasoned. There was no label on the bottle. She had only assumed because of the type of bottle and the appearance of the liquid. He had called it his medicine… Perhaps it was some type of homeopathic remedy? 

Yes, that was a likely answer, she decided. He had clients that believed in ghosts, he seemed to divine information from inanimate objects, and he appeared to be miraculously healed from some mysterious illness. And he had commented about the biscuits right after she had wondered where they were. That could have been a coincidence, of course. Maybe he had just wanted some biscuits with his tea.

Quashing her burgeoning curiosity, Robin reminded herself that she didn’t believe in all that psychic babble.

***

Their new client was a young woman who was worried about her boyfriend, who had begun acting very strangely.

“Strange how?” Strike asked her. Robin had brought her notebook with her, but Strike was also taking notes in his own book.

“He’s been very moody and jumpy. Like angry a lot. And he’s gotten really self-absorbed. I see him flexing in the mirror all the time. He didn’t really use to care about stuff like that, but he’s gotten really fit all of a sudden. I’m afraid he’s into drugs like steroids maybe, or that he’s about to leave me,” Cherise, their new client, explained.

“When did you notice his temperament starting to change?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” Cherise said miserably.

“And how long has he been working out or getting fit?” Strike clarified. Robin thought this was an odd question, but was curious to see where he was taking it.

“About the same time he started getting moody.” Cherise wrung her hands anxiously, waiting to have her fears confirmed.

“And has he started spending time with anyone new?”

“Yes, he has a group of friends at the gym. I’ve never met them, but that’s why I thought maybe he was into steroids or something.”

“Tell me more about his disposition,” Strike said.

“Well, it’s like I said. He’s been angry a lot, very short-tempered. And he has these wild mood swings. He’ll be fine one minute and then he gets all worked up over nothing.”

“And did this happen about the same time you noticed the other odd behavior?”

Cherise nodded.

“Alright, we’ll look into it and let you know what we find. Do you have any photos of him before and after he joined this gym group?” It seemed Strike had drawn the same conclusion that Robin had, that the boyfriend was in fact using steroids. 

Cherise texted the requested pictures to Strike’s mobile, and the detectives left after getting the details of the boyfriend’s gym and daily patterns. With two surveillance cases, Strike was grateful for Robin’s eagerness, and hoped that she was a quick learner. He chose not to dwell on whether or not it was wise to get too used to her presence at his agency, given that it would be short-lived. He chuckled internally at the dark pun.

As he and Robin were walking back to the tube, enjoying the intermittent sunshine on their faces, his mobile rang. Strike answered it without thinking.

“So, what did you think?” Robin could just make out the other voice, a female, but couldn’t quite understand what she was saying.

“About what?” Strike asked with a sigh.

“Your new client. Was he turned?”

Strike stopped walking and Robin kept on for a few steps, giving him some privacy. “How do you know about that?” he said, half-exasperated and half-curious.

Robin watched as Strike rubbed a frustrated hand over his face. “Charlotte…”

“I told you they were recruiting and there’s the proof,” she said in his ear.

Robin walked a few more paces, but could still hear the angry voice of her boss. “And I told you to leave me out of it…. Fuck’s sake, Charlotte, this isn’t Culloden, things are different now… And that didn’t work out well for me last time did it? ...It could have been an accident. One new pup doesn’t mean they’re planning anything… Do you have any proof of that? …Well that’s not my problem anymore, remember? You wouldn’t… Don’t do this Charlotte, I’m warning you… My answer is still no… Yeah? I’d like to see you try!” Strike ended the call and strode back to Robin looking thunderous.

As they walked in silence, Robin almost jogging to keep up with his quickened pace, Strikes’ mobile buzzed with a text. Feeling guilty, Robin stole a glance at it.

**Last night was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike reflects on his growing feelings for Robin, and wonders how she is the key to ending his curse. Robin questions whether there might be something different about Strike. The pair take on a new client whose boyfriend has been behaving oddly.

Robin arrived home late that evening. The surveillance had been uneventful as far as their target was concerned, but Strike had taught her quite a bit. She learned some tricks for looking unassuming, which was mainly just acting like you aren’t watching the person you’re watching. Strike showed her how to how to use some “spy gadgets” like night vision goggles. And he had even shown her how to tail people on the street. For whatever reason, he seemed confident that they were not going to miss their target during these activities. 

Most people probably would have thought it was an extremely boring way to spend the evening, but for Robin, it was one of the greatest nights of her life. Her dreams of being an investigator were finally being realized and Strike was a patient and kind instructor. She felt safe and relaxed in his presence in ways she wasn’t accustomed to feeling when alone with a strange man, especially one so large and imposing. Even through his surly appearance - and she hadn’t forgotten the angry phone call of that afternoon - there was something soft and endearing about him. Once, Robin even found herself wondering what his riotously curly hair would feel like beneath her fingers, and immediately blushed scarlet at the direction her thoughts had taken her, not only because she had a fiancé at home, but because of the text she had glimpsed earlier that afternoon.

Thankfully, Strike had been looking through the night vision goggles at the time and had missed her blush. Robin had blushed again when she realized she would need the loo soon. Strike hadn’t yet mentioned anything about breaks, and Robin didn’t want to ask, lest it call unnecessary attention to her inexperience. She was also getting hungry and was afraid her stomach would start rumbling. 

“I would really love some chips right now,” Robin thought to herself, dreaming of all the greasy food she shouldn’t be eating on her wedding diet.

Strike didn’t pull away from the night vision goggles, but pointed into the backseat of his car. “I have some snacks back there, if you’re hungry. Or one of us could pop into the shop over there and get some sandwiches.”

Robin marveled at his uncanny ability to once again guess what she was thinking. Or perhaps he was also hungry – the man did seem to eat a lot. Or maybe it was just another coincidence.

There happened to be a chippy near where they were parked, so Robin ordered them both fish and chips and took them back to eat in the BMW while they continued to watch for any suspicious activity around Casper’s house. They talked as they ate, and Robin learned that Strike had also dropped out of uni at about the same age and had joined the military. Strike asked about her family, and they swapped stories of their earlier years, though neither of them shared anything overly personal. Robin noticed that while companionable, her boss also seemed very private. The few stories he told about his youth were all relayed with a certain bit of reservation and distance. Whereas Matthew was animated in stories about himself, Strike seemed to almost shrink away from his own past. Far from being off-putting, it made Robin want to know him better. Each story he told her felt like a secret that she alone was privileged to know. 

As he talked about some of his cases in the SIB, she felt something close to admiration building for the man beside her. At first, she had questioned his character, thinking he might be trying to swindle gullible clients, but she was beginning to see that he was a man of honor and integrity. He wanted to help those who couldn’t help themselves. She saw within him that same demand for justice, the drive to right all the wrongs in the world, that she felt within herself. Here was finally a person who understood why she would choose a career in investigative work.

And so it was that Robin had returned home feeling contented and satisfied with a job well done, and she hoped, the beginnings of a friendship. Unfortunately, these happy feelings were not destined to last. 

Assuming Matthew was already asleep, she took her shoes off by the door and softly crept her way to their bedroom feeling like a thief in her own home. She needn’t have bothered as it turned out, because her fiancé was still awake. He didn’t look up from his book to greet her when she entered, a bad sign. 

“So you finally decided to come home then.” It was more statement than question, and the thin set of his mouth told Robin there was anger simmering underneath his cool demeanor.

“I told you I would be late,” Robin retorted.

“I thought that meant an hour two, not after fucking midnight!”

His ire finally boiled over into the worst row they had ever had, in which accusations were thrown at Robin with decreasing accuracy or precision. Robin couldn’t decide if the lowest point in the conversation was when he called into question her character for being locked in a car for hours with her boss, her sanity for walking home alone at night, or her suitability as a wife for leaving her fiancé to fend for himself for so many hours.

Exhausted both physically and emotionally, Robin finally conceded that she should have called or let him know exactly when she would be home. Feeling a bit like she had betrayed herself, or more accurately, that she had given up the higher ground, she climbed into bed with something very close to depression weighing upon her. She was excited about her job for the first time in her life, and Matthew had still not asked her about it. When she had tried to talk to him after her first day, he had tuned her out and changed the subject before she had even finished recalling their odd client. And now she had admitted fault for doing that job because it had inconvenienced the man lying next to her.

Robin was surprised by his lack of support. He had always been supportive before, like after she was attacked and couldn’t leave her bedroom, or when she had decided to drop out of uni, or when she had started therapy. He was supportive when she first moved to London to be with him. But now, as Robin lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, she viewed those conversations with new eyes. 

After she was attacked, he had constantly complained about how difficult it was to have her so far away or not be able to see her. He had urged her to seek treatment so they could be together again. When she had dropped out of uni, he argued that she would never get a good job in London without having finished her degree. If they were to have the type of house they wanted, she would need to earn a higher salary – how could she do that without an education? When she had started therapy, he wondered why she couldn’t just try medication instead of taking the more difficult path of CBT exercises. All of these were said in a joking, “loving” manner. But now that Robin thought back on them, they didn’t seem so loving. What had changed?

 _Me_ , Robin answered herself. Not for the first time, she considered that she wasn’t the same person as that seventeen year old girl who had first fallen for the handsome and popular boy in school. She twisted the diamond and sapphire ring on her finger, wondering if they would ever find their way back to who they used to be, or had their lives moved them too far in opposite directions?

The heaviness that weighed upon Robin’s chest didn’t ease as she closed her eyes to finally fall into a fitful sleep. She was plagued by vivid nightmares of being buried alive and suffocating, of being tied like a horse to a heavy cart and whipped when she didn’t run fast enough, and finally of being strangled by a man in a gorilla mask. 

Robin woke gasping for breath and unable to move. The weight on her chest was heavier, as if someone were sitting on her and pinning her down. She started to panic but her throat and lungs wouldn’t work. Nothing on her body would work. She gurgled on her own saliva, unable to swallow or cough or clear her airway at all. She closed her eyes and focused. Starting at her toes, she focused on calming her muscles one by one, until finally her throat relaxed and she swallowed furiously, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. The weight on her chest receded and she focused on evening her breaths. 

Through it all, Matthew didn’t wake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin and Strike grow closer during surveillance, and Robin reflects on the state of her relationship with Matthew.

Strike gave Robin the morning off after working so late on surveillance. She was proving to be an efficient and valuable employee. She learned quickly and had good instincts. Of course, nothing could prepare her for the most recent case they had taken on, if his suspicions were correct. That was part of the reason he had given her the morning off. The thought of Robin near a recent transition kicked his protective instincts into overdrive. 

They had grown naturally closer over the course of the previous evening. She was easy and pleasant to talk to, and Strike had found himself inexplicably sharing things he had only ever shared with Charlotte. They talked some about their childhoods, in which he had had to edit so as to not reveal the time period in which his childhood had taken place. His little songbird hummed in satisfaction as Robin recalled her pony Angus and her riding lessons. He found her knowledge and love of horses both charming and wholesome, which essentially described the entirety of her character. 

Strike knew, though he chose not to acknowledge it, that he was in serious danger of developing feelings beyond the platonic for this fiery-haired beauty. In fact, if he were honest with himself, he knew that he was already well past that line. For the first time in nearly two hundred and fifty years, he found himself wishing he had never heard the Cherokee’s prophecy. He wasn’t sure finding his humanity was worth destroying something so lovely and innocent.

A distraction came in the form of Roy, their nickname for Cherise’s boyfriend, chosen in reference to “roid rage”. The name had been Robin’s idea, after Strike explained that he preferred to use nicknames for clients so as to preserve anonymity. Strike stepped out of the alcove in which he was taking shelter and followed the man towards his gym. Speeding up a little, Strike passed by Roy, close enough to catch his scent, but not so close as to alarm the man. He smelled of dirt, leaves, mist, and sweat, with the hint of an animalistic undertone. His suspicions confirmed, Strike frowned and walked on, lighting a cigarette to rid his nostrils of the stench. 

Pulling out his mobile, Strike checked the calendar. They had four days to learn more about Roy’s friends and find a way to keep Cherise safe. With such a tight schedule, Strike scanned through his contact list and clicked the name of a former connection from his military days. He hoped his call wouldn’t be wholly unwelcome.

***

Strike sat in the back of the Tottenham reading a paper, waiting for his new recruit to arrive. Sam Barclay was guarded on the phone, but agreed to meet when Strike had assured him this job wouldn’t result in anyone’s death. Barclay was an ex squaddie who had joined the British military after his family had moved from Glasgow, dissatisfied with the growing talk of another rebellion.

Most Scots of his kind would consider him a traitor for abandoning his roots and joining what many considered to be the enemy, but he hadn’t wanted history to repeat itself. Many of the Scottish clans were decimated during the Jacobite rising of 1745. If a little bit of “treason” prevented that from happening again, he was happy to take on the role of questionable morality and allegiance. Many of his kind argued that all they wanted was freedom, but they currently _had_ freedom. What those individuals really wanted was control, power, and _revenge_. And the Barclays had wanted no part in that, and so they had defected to England.

Sam Barclay had served in Counter Intelligence within the British Military, and it was there that he had first crossed paths with Strike. Given Barclay’s intimate knowledge of the enemy, he had proved a valuable asset. It was his unique knowledge and “skills” that Strike needed once again.

Barclay spotted Strike easily and made his way over to his old friend’s table after ordering a pint for himself.

“What can A do for ye?” the Scot asked as he slid into the open bench and Strike looked up from his paper.

“I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested.”

“Go on…”

“Surveillance gig, probably undercover. There’s a group of Moonlighters possibly recruiting. I know of at least one recent addition.”

“Natural or transitioned?” Barclay asked, intrigued.

“Transitioned,” Strike said grimly. “They’ve caught the attention of the SIB.”

“You’re no’ still workin’ for them, are ye?”

“No, actually the recent transition is the boyfriend of a client of mine.” Strike hesitated before continuing. “But then I got a call from Charlotte. Charlotte Camp-“

“Yeah, A know who you’re talkin’ aboot,” Barclay interrupted. “An’ ye can shove it up yer arse if ye think A’m workin’ for Captain Crazy.”

Strike snorted into his beer. “It’s not like that. You’d be working for me. I’m not reporting anything to the SIB unless there actually seems to be a threat. They can gather their own intelligence, as far as I’m concerned. I’m just wanting to get information for my client and make sure she’s safe.”

Sam nodded, so Strike continued. “I should warn you though, Charlotte’s convinced they’re planning something.”

“It’s no’ illegal tae turn a human, if they consent tae it,” Sam explained, sounding slightly defensive.

“Yeah, I know. But if it turns out she’s right, and they _are_ a threat…”

“You’ll report it tae her,” Sam guessed. Strike answered with a nod.

“A don’ want another war. A’ll help ye, but A don’ want tae be involved in a slaughter, ye kin?”

Strike raised his glass to the Scot, “You and me both.”

Strike filled Barclay in on Roy’s movements and habits, and they decided on a compensation scale. He didn’t need to mention they were on a bit of a tight deadline, with only a few days left in the moon cycle, as Barclay was already well aware.

An hour later, Strike watched the Glaswegian making his way along the pavement to the tube station, sincerely hoping they weren’t about to discover another uprising. Perhaps it was because she was also prone to lies and drama, but Charlotte had an uncanny ability to intuit when someone was planning something against her.

***

_Fog rose over the field, but it didn’t hinder his eyesight. Strike could see the enemy moving in the distance, scrambling to form ranks with their diminished forces; many of the Scottish clans had decided to drop the cause. This should be easy. The English regiment had the upper hand, just as Charlotte had predicted. She was right about Prestonpans, and she had been right about Derby. The Duke had finally started listening to her advice, and it seemed she was right again. The rebellion would soon be over, once they neutralized this last threat._

_Strike tightened his grip on his musket, tipped with the silver bayonet. Blood ran the length of the silver, ready to deliver a death blow to his adversaries. The Scottish forces advanced, and Strike waited for the moment they would break ranks. They were wild, undisciplined, untrained for battle. His razor-sharp eyes located his target, one of the alphas._

_The alpha gave the command and the mongrels charged. Strike held his position, waiting. And suddenly, the opportunity he needed presented itself. He pulled the trigger and watched the silver ball zing through the air, directly into the chest of the alpha. He had missed the heart, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The musket shot couldn’t kill an alpha, but it would immobilize him._

_Strike charged through the sea of swirling bodies, his face and clothes sprayed with blood as his comrades tore the clansmen limb from limb. Strike didn’t like to waste time with barbarism. Just go straight for the killing blow and move on. It was more efficient that way. That was also why he had one of the highest kill counts, and why he had been promoted to sergeant. And now he was tasked with seeking out the alphas and destroying them, thus effectively ending the rebellion._

_His current target was now lying on the ground, clutching the wound in his chest. With all his strength, Strike drove the silver bayonet towards the heart of the alpha. At the last second, the fucking dog rolled out of the way and Strike’s bayonet speared into the ground. The Scot swiped at Strike with his sword, causing him to stumble backwards. Another Scot crashed into him from behind, sending Strike tumbling to the ground. The alpha leapt for him, grappling for any bit of flesh he could reach. Strike kicked out, trying to free himself as the alpha began to transform._

_His nose and mouth elongated, his lips pulling back into a snarl over sharpened teeth. Strike grasped for his musket and bayonet, but it was just out of reach. The second Scot was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and punching every inch of him he could. Strike drew the silver dagger from his belt, slicing it across his own leg and coating the edge of the blade in his blood. When the Scot drew back for another blow, Strike plunged the dagger into the clansman’s heart._

_The alpha shook out his head, his fur waving in the breeze. Only his head had transformed. For a fraction of a second, Strike was mesmerized; he hadn’t known that was even possible. Throwing the corpse off his body, Strike dove for his musket and bayonet. He turned with the deadly instrument at the same moment that he felt razor-sharp teeth bite into his ankle. With a cry of rage and pain, Strike drove the blade into the alpha’s heart. With his dying breath, the fucker looked into Strike’s eyes and laughed._

_Pain – fiery, unimaginable pain – swept over his skin and up his leg, and Strike fell back, gasping what would surely be his last breath._

_“Corm? …Get him to the tent!… Stay with me, Bluey.”_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> After confirming his suspicions about the subject of their new case, Strike hires Barclay to go undercover. Strike remembers when when he lost his leg.

Strike picked up Robin in his BMW that evening to continue surveillance on Casper’s house. Robin was immensely thankful that Matt wasn’t home yet, given the recent allegations of what she and Strike might be doing in that car all evening.

She was still surprised that her fiancé hadn’t been more supportive of her chance to learn detective skills. Did he not trust her at all? She frowned as she remembered an article she had read in a magazine recently – that people who throw about wild accusations of infidelity are often the ones who are actually being unfaithful.  _ It’s just a stupid magazine _ , she thought.  _ It also had a recipe for a homemade facewash made with eggs and sugar _ .

Nevertheless, she felt a guilty thrill when she saw Strike’s car pull up outside her flat.

Strike suppressed a smile as Robin approached the car, bringing with her the steady thumping of his bird mark. He was getting a little too fond of feeling her heart beating against his chest; it had been difficult to concentrate all day in the absence of his little bird fluttering.

“Hiya,” she said breathlessly as she climbed into the car, and Strike was hit with a wave of her heavenly aroma. 

He noticed that she looked tired and worn, possibly a side effect from being out so late the previous evening.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Great!” and she beamed at him, some of her weariness easing at the prospect of another evening of detective training.

As he pulled away from the curb, Strike glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Have you worked out Casper’s case yet?”

“No, and I don’t see how you have either. Care to give me a hint?”

Strike just grinned and shook his head. “I’m not even sure that I’m right yet. We still need to catch the ‘ghost’ red-handed.”

“Won’t we need to be in the house to do that?”

Strike shook his head again. “He definitely wasn’t there when we interviewed her, so that means he must be leaving the house at some point. I think we’ll see him sneaking back in.”

“And you’re sure it’s a man?” Robin inquired.

“Did the attic look like a woman had been living there to you?”

Robin crossed her arms over her chest and responded glumly, “No, but it didn’t look like a man had been there either.”

Strike chuckled. He knew there was no way she could figure it out given the lack of evidence, but he enjoyed her enthusiasm and her frustration. And he especially enjoyed teasing her a little.

He parked a short distance from Casper’s house. He had checked once again before picking up Robin and didn’t see any sign of the mysterious man coming by that evening. He suspected they would have another uneventful night as far as their target was concerned. 

They hadn’t been parked for very long before Robin got a text from Matthew:

**No, she’s working late.**

Robin stared at her phone for several minutes, trying to work out what the text meant. Strike could hear her tangled, incoherent thoughts, as well as the slight increase in her heart rate.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

She continued to stare at her phone as another text came in:

**Sorry, meant to send that to Tom.**

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just got a weird text from Matt.”

Strike concentrated on her thoughts again, ignoring the pang of guilt at eavesdropping. All he heard was anxiety as she poured over the text again and again, “No, she’s working late.” He had enough experience trailing unfaithful partners, and indeed in his own romantic life, to appreciate the suspicious nature of the text. 

Strike could feel his darker self clawing its way to the surface. This was a problem he could easily remedy. (why? add more) He reached for the bag of food he kept behind his seat, trying to distract himself from thoughts of driving back to Robin’s house and having a “talk” with her fiancé that would likely end with Strike’s teeth in the man’s neck. He shoved a toffee into his mouth and chewed it irritably, reasoning that Robin probably wouldn’t appreciate that kind of behavior, even if it was borne of anger on her behalf.

As he chewed, he got a text from Barclay:

**I’m in. Pretended to run into them at the gym. After a bout of sniffing we worked out for a while and I asked them if they knew of anywhere to run around here.**

Strike texted back:

**Good work, keep me posted.**

After eating several more toffees, Strike suggested they practice following people some more. Robin had a natural talent for counter-surveillance. Most people’s instincts were to turn away rapidly and guiltily when their target spotted them, but Robin was quick-witted and unassuming, easily deflecting suspicion. 

Strike was in the middle of teaching Robin how to pick a lock when he got another text from Barclay. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, making Robin jump.

**Bad news – they’re running tonight. Somewhere in the city.**

Strike typed a quick response:

**Are they safe?**

Barclay’s answer was almost immediate:

**IDK yet.**

“Fuck!” Strike exclaimed again.

“Is everything alright?” Robin was looking at him in concern.

“No, it’s not,” but he didn’t elaborate. 

Strike considered calling Charlotte. This was just the kind of thing she had feared, but he also didn’t want to admit that she might be right. And he  _ really _ didn’t want to get dragged into working for her.

Strike moved infinitesimally closer to Robin, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. He allowed his arm to brush against hers and heard her small intake of breath at the shock that ran through them both at the contact. Strike concentrated and used his gifts to conceal them, their forms easily melting into the background of their surroundings. He was probably being overly cautious, but he didn’t like the thought of Moonlighters roaming the city, putting Robin at risk.

Strike strained to look into the immediate future, trying to see where the pack might be heading, but all he could see was a darkened park. London was huge, and the park didn’t have any distinguishing features.

“Keep going,” he urged, nodding back to the gate lock Robin was practicing on. 

Suppressing her questions, Robin turned back to her task.

Strike had never tried concealing another person before, and it was taking a toll on him. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead. 

After what seemed an eternity, Robin finally succeeded in picking the lock.

“I did it!” she exclaimed and looked up at him in triumph.

Strike tried to smile at her, but he was fairly certain it had come out as more of a grimace. Robin noticed that he was leaning heavily on the fence and looked quite ill.

“Are you alright? Do you need to rest?” She reached out a hand to steady him as he swayed slightly. 

Strike closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her hand on his arm.

“Is it your leg?” Robin thought, but stopped herself from voicing her question.

“No, it’s n-… I think I need to sit down,” he answered. 

He felt the concealment drop as he stepped away from the fence on shaking legs. He mustered his strength and walked to the car without Robin’s support.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Robin asked. 

Strike grunted derisively.  _ Yes, there is _ , he thought to himself.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” she asked.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe some food?”

Strike grunted again at the unintended double meaning of her words. “Food” was exactly what he needed at the moment. He thought of calling Nick, but it seemed he would be needing to keep his strength up, and what Nick was able to provide wouldn’t be enough. He was going to need a steady supply of blood; he didn’t want to risk draining his friend.

Strike took out the sandwiches he had brought and handed one to Robin. The cheese and pickle did little to restore his strength. He drove Robin home after, desperate to get away from the sound of her heart beating. Though he loved the pulse of his little bird, every thump was a reminder of what he was and what he had to do to survive. 

He pulled away from the curb after dropping her off and waiting to see that she was safely inside. Feeling that he would come to regret this decision, he pulled out his mobile and called Coco back.

***

Matthew wasn’t home when Robin came in. She was just about to text him when she heard the front door open, followed by the sound of him whistling. 

“Matt?” she called from the kitchen.

“Robs! I thought you’d be home later.” He stood in the doorway of the kitchen. 

Robin wondered if she was imagining that he seemed nervous.

“Cormoran wasn’t feeling well, so we ended early.”

“I’m just going to pop into the shower. I went to the gym with Tom,” he said, though he didn’t look at all sweaty.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin receives an odd text from Matthew, while Strike receives a disturbing text from Barclay. Out of paranoia, Strike uses his gifts to protect Robin while there's a possible threat on the loose.

Strike woke the next morning feeling a bit disoriented. He blinked rapidly as he took in the somewhat unfamiliar room around him. A body stirred next to him, and he suddenly remembered where he was. He had called Coco last night.

Strike slid out of bed and reached for his prosthesis, trying not to disturb the woman next to him. He was buttoning his shirt when she lifted her head.

“Want to stay for breakfast?” she asked sleepily.

“Can’t sorry. Need to get work I’m afraid.” Strike hurriedly stuffed his wallet and phone into his pockets.

“Will I see you again?” Coco asked in what she surely thought was a seductive voice.

“I’m pretty busy at work at the moment, but I’ll call you when I’ve got a free night, yeah?”

And Strike rushed out the door, hardly listening to her response, before she had the chance to try to lure him back to bed.

***

On his way to the office, Strike castigated himself for his reckless use of his gifts in the past few days. He couldn’t take much more blood from Coco without risking harm to her. He was already a bit concerned by how pale she looked when he left. Plus, he didn’t particularly enjoy her company and wanted to spend as little time as possible with her. He knew there was a simple solution to his problem – he could simply stop caring. But he didn’t want to hurt anyone, even Coco. 

He needed to find a way to end his curse. But of course, that would result in hurting Robin. Feeling frustrated and hungry, Strike lit his third cigarette of the morning and made his way to a café for breakfast. 

Over a full English, Strike made a plan. He would call Nick for a refill on his “medicine”. If he stopped using his gifts for frivolous cases, his supply from Nick should last at least a week or two, allowing him to keep up his strength in case the Moonlighters became a problem. Then he could call Coco, or find someone else. He could trade off every two weeks or so with Nick, which shouldn’t harm his friend too badly. 

Strike chose not to acknowledge that he was adjusting his calculations to account for the extra effort it would take to protect Robin from whatever dangers they faced.

***

By the time Strike showered and changed and came back down to the office, Robin was in place at her desk and answering emails.

“Morning,” he said gruffly, moving straight to his inner office, then backing up to greet her properly. He noticed that she still looked tired.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Yes, that would be great,” she said with a sigh.

“Alright?”

“I’m a bit tired is all.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, accentuating the look of her fatigue.

“It can take a while to get used to the irregular hours,” Strike said bracingly.

“No, it’s not that,” Robin explained. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.” She had awoken from another nightmare last night, panic-stricken.

Strike grunted in acknowledgment, handing her the mug of strong tea.

“You did well last night,” he complimented her. “You’re a fast learner.”

Robin beamed under his praise, a light blush spreading underneath her freckles, bringing with it her unique warm scent.

“I have a meeting with a new subcontractor in a bit. He’s going to be helping out with Roy.” He turned to walk towards his office. “Just send him back when he gets here.”

Robin deflated like a balloon. It seemed she was being replaced on the Roy case. _Probably because I’m only temporary_ , she grumbled to herself.

Strike turned back around. “Hmm? What was that?”

“I – I didn’t say anything,” Robin murmured. 

Strike nodded and walked back to his office.

***

Sam arrived a while later, looking tired but content. Strike had noticed that Sam’s kind usually looked pleased with themselves after a night out _on the prowl_ , much as he himself did after consuming blood. He closed the door behind him.

“How’d it go last night?”

“They let me run wi’ them. Told them A just moved here and A’m lookin’ for a new pack.”

Strike nodded encouragingly, so Sam continued. “There’s only five o’ them, if ye don’t count Roy.”

“Was he not there?”

“Na, he won’t be able tae transform for his first time until the full moon peaks on Saturday.”

“Oh, ok. Go on.”

“They seem harmless enough. Only one o’ them is a Natural, the rest are Transitions. I’m no’ sure they realized how stupid it is tae turn inside the city.”

“Recent Transitions?”

“A don’t know yet, that’s what A’m trying tae figure oot.”

Strike leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Were they at least careful?” he asked.

“Yeah, we went tae the park early so there was nae chance o’ turnin’ until we were alone.”

“Which park?” Strike asked. 

“Queen’s Wood.”

Strike nodded, relieved that that particular park was far from Robin. He conceded that Queen’s Wood was indeed a good park for a pack of wolves to run around undetected. 

“I’ll try tae talk them intae going ootside the city,” Sam said.

“Good thinking.”

“So who’s yer new receptionist?”

“Robin.” Strike smiled as her name crossed his lips. 

“She’s pretty.” The small sigh that had slipped from his boss as he said her name hadn’t escaped Sam’s notice.

“And engaged,” Strike leveled him with a look.

“No’ totally off the market then,” and Sam gave him a cheeky grin.

***

Robin’s mood was plummeting quickly while Strike was in his inner office. He had just complimented her on her skills, and now she was locked out of a meeting about one of their clients – a client she had helped interview, no less. Of course, she hadn’t actually done anything in the interview, that had been all Strike.

Was it because she was a woman and Barclay was a man? Did Strike think she couldn’t handle a case about steroids because of that?

She set back to work reading emails, still thinking about her boss. She couldn’t help but remember how ill he had suddenly looked last night. Just as before, he seemed miraculously healed this morning. Is that why he needed to bring someone else in for this case, because he wasn’t up to it physically?

Robin remembered the few times he had responded to her thoughts. It had happened again this morning, as she was silently grumbling about his hiring of Barclay. Were all of these coincidences? _What if he really is psychic_ , thought Robin.

That would explain the way he had examined Casper’s attic, and how he’d gotten information from a hairbrush so quickly. Robin had seen enough crime dramas to know that even if he had sent it to a forensics expert, he probably wouldn’t have gotten results that quickly, nor would he have been given a picture of someone without an accompanying name. He also hadn’t shown this picture to Robin, making her question its existence. 

_Is it possible?_ Robin mused. 

A plan was already forming in her head.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike meets with Barclay to discuss his undercover work. Robin suspects Strike might be psychic.

Robin spent the afternoon thinking of increasingly random things, trying to get a reaction out of Strike. _This isn’t working. Do I have to ask him a question?_ she thought.

She tried to replicate the times he had responded to her by asking herself questions. He didn’t answer any of them. 

_Maybe he can’t hear me_ , she reasoned over lunch in the Tottenham. _Oh bugger, what if he can and he knows what I’m thinking right now?_

Robin looked at him apprehensively over her sandwich, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned as he continued reading the paper. 

Strike had noticed Robin’s heart beating erratically all day, but he had purposely resisted looking into her thoughts, conscious of his resolve to save his strength. He wondered if her problem could be stress. He knew that planning a wedding could be very hectic and demanding, though he didn’t know if she actually _was_ planning a wedding any time soon. This brought his mind back to what Barclay had said about her not being totally off the market, and his little bird mark fluttered with hope.

Trying for a distraction in case he was listening to her thoughts, Robin asked, “How was your meeting with Barclay?” She wondered if he would actually tell her anything.

“Good, he’s going undercover, trying to make friends with the gym group.”

“Has he found anything yet?”

“Too early to tell,” Strike said through a bite of sandwich and turned back to his paper.

“You look like you’re feeling better today,” Robin ventured, remembering how weak and pale he had suddenly looked while on surveillance the previous evening.

Strike paused in taking another bite of his food and grunted before carrying on.

“I was pretty worried for a minute there,” Robin pressed, desperate for any clue about his mysterious illness.

Strike’s mind worked furiously, trying to find a way to deflect her questions. He settled for changing the subject.

“So when’s the big day?” Robin looked at him in confusion for a moment, so he gestured towards her ring.

“Oh,” Robin twisted her ring anxiously, “we haven’t set a date yet.”

***

As they were climbing the stairs back to the office, Strike suddenly stopped and slumped against the handrail. His eyes clenched tightly as if he were in pain.

“Are you alright?” Robin asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he went rigid and his eyes rolled back into his head, a sliver of white just visible beneath his eyelids.

_Robin. Her face filled his vision, her hands cupping his cheeks. Electricity zinged through the air and over his skin where it touched hers, lifting the hair on his neck. A nonexistent wind whipped her hair around her face. Her eyes shone a brilliant blue as she whispered, “I love you, Cormoran. My life is…”_

_Her words were drowned out by a rushing in his ears as the electricity flowed through him, tracing around his bird mark and sinking into his heart. Her eyes grew brighter, as if a light shone behind them. His little bird glowed a brilliant white against his bare chest and suddenly light burst from Robin’s chest, flowing towards his. It coiled into ribbons of blue, violet, gold, silver, and red._

_The ribbons of light wrapped around them, snaking over their arms and legs, and pressing them closer together, skin against skin. One by one, each ribbon of light found its way home to his heart, absorbing into his chest. The electricity pulsed inside him, overwhelming his senses with its powerful steady drum. All he felt was Robin as her essence became his own. Strike drew her lips to his, tasting her honey-sweet tongue moving with his as she gave herself over to him completely._

“Cormoran!” Robin was shouting his name and shaking his shoulders. 

He felt his body relax and slowly opened his eyes. Robin was in front of him, her hands fluttering over his arms and shoulders, stopping just shy of touching his face. He gazed at her in wonder as his little bird thumped erratically and then calmed as he breathed in her scent. It felt warm against his chest, an echo of the light coursing through him in his vision. His bird. Robin. _His_ Robin. 

What had he just seen? Was this the moment she would heal his curse? Would he come to love her before he took her life for his own? The emotion he had felt as her light flowed into him was the most powerful, indescribable feeling he had ever experienced. And now in its absence he felt cold and empty, as if there were a gaping chasm in his chest where his heart should be. This future-Robin had stolen a part of him, and he wanted it back. But what fate would befall this beautiful angel when she made him whole again? His vision had ended too soon, but he knew the answer. The Cherokee shaman had already told him her fate.

“Are you alright?” Robin was asking solicitously. “Here, come sit down.”

“I’m fine,” he waved her off. 

“You were having a… a fit or something.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine now,” he said brusquely. 

He turned from her to climb the rest of the way to the office. He wanted to get away from her as soon as possible. He couldn’t let this vision come to pass, he _couldn’t_. The way she had consumed him so completely when he had kissed her… He wouldn’t allow himself to love her only to take her life. 

As he made his way to his inner office, every step away from her felt like a piece of him was left behind. His little bird fluttered, and he wished it would stop. He hated how much it warmed him, how _right_ it felt for her heart to beat against his chest. He hated how much he loved his little bird, his _robin_. He hated how much he already felt for the woman it represented, his Robin.

Most of all, he hated knowing that it didn’t matter – there was nothing he could do to stop this vision from coming to pass.

***

Robin watched him sulk off to his office, wondering why he had seemed angry after his episode. Was it because she had seen?

She was fairly certain she had just witnessed him having some kind of psychic vision. _Or, maybe he has seizures,_ she thought. But it didn’t look like a seizure. She wasn’t an expert or anything, but she felt confident that he wouldn’t have been able to stay upright. But she could be wrong.

Feeling like she was pushing her luck a little too far for the day, she decided there was one way to find out if he really was some type of psychic. She had been dancing around it all day, but what if she tried a more direct approach? 

_Can you hear me?_ she thought. Silence. _Cormoran?_ she asked wordlessly. Again, there was no response. Wondering if she needed to “speak up” a little, Robin decided to give it one more try. Mouth dry and heart in her throat, she silently called his name a little more loudly. _Cormoran?_

“Yeah?” came his voice from the other office. 

_Can you come in here for a moment?_ she called again.

Robin heard him heave a sigh, then the creak of his chair as he stood. 

“What is it?” he asked as he came into the outer office.

He took in Robin’s look of shock and triumph, her thoughts a tangled blur - _Oh my God you heard, I can’t believe it. Can you still hear me?_

His breath froze in his chest as he realized that she hadn’t called to him out loud.

“Fuck,” he muttered.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike has a vision of he and Robin wrapped in ribbons of light. Robin tests whether or not Strike is psychic.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” Robin asked weakly, still trying to process what had just happened. She hadn’t really believed it could be true until he had answered her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Strike deflected and turned back towards his inner office.

Robin jumped out of her chair. “Wait! Cormoran, I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, you won’t, because there’s nothing to tell,” he said roughly, almost aggressively.

“Can you always hear me?” Robin pressed, “Or is it just when I speak directly to you?”

Strike turned back and approached her, stepping into her space. His face inched closer to hers, and he looked intently into her eyes. His pupils dilated slightly, and Robin thought she saw a hint of red around the irises.

“You didn’t call to me, and I didn’t hear you.” His voice was smooth and compelling, as sweet as honey.

Robin blinked dazedly for a moment, distracted by his proximity.

“Yes, I did,” she insisted, “and yes, you did.”

Strike’s brow furrowed, and he tried again, his voice becoming deeper and more melodic. “No, you called to me out loud, using your voice, and I answered you.”

Robin blinked in confusion again. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought your name, and you heard me. But like I said, I’m not going to tell anyone. You can trust me.”

_ Why isn’t this working? _ thought Strike. He could normally bend people’s minds quite easily. It didn’t even take much effort.  _ She can’t be a witch. Doesn’t smell like one, anyway.  _ He inhaled deeply the scent of a sunny field of roses, laced with musky leather. Definitely not the pungent, smoky-woods scent of a witch.

“What are you?” he heard himself ask.

“I could ask you the same,” she responded cheekily.

Strike tried to think of a way out of this situation but came up empty-handed. If he couldn’t change her memory of what just happened, that only left him with two options – kill her or misdirect her. The former would certainly happen eventually, but there was no reason why it needed to happen  _ now _ . There was no evidence that she suspected anything other than him being able to read her mind. Perhaps she was one of those “spiritual” people that believed in crystal balls and fortune tellers and all that metaphysical babble. He seriously doubted it, but it was worth a shot.

To Robin’s surprise, he grunted an almost-laugh and walked to the farting sofa.

“What are your theories?” he asked.

Robin teased back, “Is this part of my detective training?”

“Sure.” The grin he gave her melted her insides. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts into something resembling coherency.

Shaking her head slightly, Robin ventured, “Are you psychic? Was that you having a vision on the stairs earlier? Is that how you discovered there’s a man staying in Casper’s attic?”

He tried to answer as succinctly as possible, hoping she would accept his simplistic explanation and move on. “Yes to the second two, close enough on the first.”

Robin couldn’t tell if he was perturbed or not. He seemed to be torn somewhere between amusement, irritation, relief, and fear.

“Can you always hear my thoughts?” Robin asked in wonder. 

He considered her for a moment, then sighed and answered. “No, only if I’m concentrating on you or if you want me to hear you.”

“But the other times you’ve heard me, I wasn’t intending for you to…” 

He understood the question she didn’t finish, and shifted in his seat. He addressed his fingers as he answered, “Maybe not, but either you subconsciously wanted me to hear you, or I subconsciously focused on you.”

Strike looked up into her eyes, unable to resist the pull of their liquid blue depths. The detectives sat gazing at each other, considering the implications of what he had just said. The silence stretched on for just a beat too long. Robin felt her cheeks warm as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

He both heard and felt her heart accelerate, but he didn’t think it was because he had made her uncomfortable. There was no embarrassment in the pink of her cheeks; that denoted an entirely different emotion. Strike glanced at the ring on her finger and forced himself to escape her all-consuming presence. 

“Anyway, we have surveillance for Casper again this evening. I suspect this will be the last night.” And he heaved himself off the sofa.

Robin opened her mouth to ask how, but no words came out. Strike just tapped his finger to his temple and strode back into his office.

***

Robin had feared that he might sack her on the spot, but he hadn’t. Other than the hint of frustration that had colored his tone, things were no more awkward between them than she might expect after learning his secret. But even still, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon in his office. That wasn’t unusual, but Robin still wondered if she was reading too much into it.

Strike had found it very difficult to concentrate all afternoon, in the wake of not only his vision but the revelation of one of his gifts. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or not. It would make work easier now that she knew and he didn’t have to hide it, but the next day was supposed to be her last via the temp agency.

The question Strike struggled with at the moment was how his vision of them together would come true if she was meant to leave. But maybe she wasn’t meant to leave, or maybe their paths would cross some other way.  _ Or _ , thought Strike,  _ maybe fate is bollocks _ . What if he were to let her go on about her life? 

_ But the visions always come true _ , he argued. A small voice in the back of his mind reasoned that perhaps the visions always came true because he acted on them, essentially creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.  _ Except that doesn’t explain how Robin ended up in the office to begin with _ . 

Strike rubbed a frustrated hand over his face. “How the fuck does fate work?” he muttered irritably to himself. 

What he  _ should _ do – the sensible, honorable thing to do – would be to let her leave him and move on. If she was somehow fated to come back, then so be it. But the thought of her leaving him filled him with dread. Just thinking about his little bird never thumping in time with her heart again made his blood run cold and heavy, as if it suddenly turned to lead. 

If he were honest with himself, completely honest, what he wanted more than anything was for that vision to come true. He wanted to look into her eyes and hear that she loved him. He wanted her to look at him as if he weren’t a monster. He wanted to feel her light coursing through him. He wanted to taste her lips and feel her tongue moving over his. 

He wanted that moment to come to pass. He needed it to; he needed it more than the air he breathed. He could practically feel her light flowing through him now, just at the memory of the vision. How much more exquisite would it feel in reality? How could he live the rest of his life with the feeble impression of her embrace, without ever really experiencing it for himself?

But how could he allow himself the joy of her body pressed against his, the taste of her kiss, or that mystical light coursing through him only for it to end in her ultimate demise? 

What if he could have her but not have to kill her? He would continue living his cursed life for all of eternity if it meant that he didn’t have to harm his beautiful angel. What good was humanity when it came with such a price?

He needed to know if there was any way to change the future. 

And then there was the fact that he hadn’t been able to influence her memory…  _ What could that mean? _

Almost as if his thoughts had summoned the one person who might be able to help him, Ilsa’s name flashed across his mobile as it buzzed.

“Hi, Ils,” he answered.

“It’s been a while since you’ve called Nick, are you doing alright?” she said without preamble.

“Yeah, listen, I might drop by on the weekend, if that’s alright?”

“Of course! Corm, you know you can always call us.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

He could practically hear her eye roll. “We’re your friends, Corm. You know Nick doesn’t mind. He wants to help you.”

“Right. Anyway, I was hoping there was something else you could help me with. What do you know about visions?”

Ilsa paused for a moment. “No more than you, I expect. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you ever heard of a way to change them to prevent what’s in them from happening.”

“Why, what have you seen?” she sounded concerned.

“Nothing. Well, not  _ nothing _ exactly. Ilsa… I met her. The prophecy,” he didn’t need to explain further.

Ilsa squealed on the other end of the line. “Oh, Corm, that’s fantastic!”

“Not really,” he said dryly. “Not for her, at least.”

“You’re wanting to know if you really have to kill her,” Ilsa surmised.

He didn’t need to answer her, so she continued, her voice becoming stern, “Not that I condone it, mind you, but you’ve killed people before.” Her voice softened, “I’m sorry Corm, but from my knowledge, once an event is foretold it can’t be un…told. Why does it bother you all of a sud… oh.” She paused. “You like her,” she guessed.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “But that’s not all.” He told her about his latest vision, about the ribbons of light. “Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

“No, I haven’t. And you couldn’t see anything else? Like maybe what happened to you after? Or what happened to her after? Could you tell if there was anyone else there?”

“No. Why, what are you thinking?” He was intrigued now. 

“Well… and I’m just thinking out loud here… If there’s nobody else there, no witch to cast a spell or anything… Have you ever heard of a human doing anything like that?”

Strike’s breath seemed to catch in his throat. Wasn’t he himself just wondering if she were different somehow?

“Ilsa, you might be onto something. I tried to bend her mind earlier because she – well, she figured out that I could hear her thoughts – “

“What?!” Ilsa exclaimed.

“Let me finish. She figured it out because she’s a bloody good detective apparently, and I tried to change her memory, but it wouldn’t work.”

“Is it because you haven’t fed recently?” she asked, serious now.

“Erm, well, actually…”

“Say no more, I don’t want the details. Go on.”

“That’s it, I tried and it didn’t work.”

“Is there any way she could be a witch?” Ilsa asked.

“I don’t think so. She doesn’t smell like one, at least.”

“I’ll do some research, see what I can find out. Bring her round on Sunday, if you can, and I’ll see if I can get a reading on her. Witches can always sense each other.”

“Right, thanks Ils.”

“Do you need some blood then too, or do you… have someone?”

“No, actually, I could use some,” he said reluctantly. 

“Sure thing. I’ll tell Nick to take some supplements.”

“Ilsa?” He caught her before she hung up. “Thanks.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike tries to change Robin's memory and realizes that he can't. They have a conversation about how he can hear her thoughts. Strike reflects on fate and the vision he had of Robin. He calls Ilsa for help.

The detectives left the office together after five that evening for surveillance on Casper’s house. This should be the last night of surveillance, though Strike had no idea exactly what time their target would appear. He could tell that Robin was feeling a little awkward about the revelations of that afternoon. Though he tried to stay out of her thoughts, her anxiety that he was upset with her came through loud and clear. He could have ignored it, but he was discomfited at the thought that he was the cause of her disquiet.

It occurred to him that he could kill two birds with one stone – he could extend a conciliatory hand to her and possibly learn what he needed to know about her.

So as they sat in his BMW watching the slowly darkening street, he ventured, “So tell me something about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” Robin asked, pleased that he was still speaking to her.

“You know something personal,  _ special _ , about me. Turnabout’s fair play,” he teased.

Robin snorted. “I don’t think there’s anything special to tell.”

“Bollocks. There has to be something. What’s something not very many people know about you?”

Robin’s face fell and she looked down at her hands that were twisting in her lap. For a moment, Strike didn’t think she was going to answer. But then she lifted her head and in a quiet but strong voice said, “I dropped out of uni because I was… attacked.”

This wasn’t what Strike was expecting. He stared at her, trying to work out what kind of attack, though he thought he knew. 

“Afterwards, I couldn’t leave my room for a long time. I started having these terrible nightmares, where it felt like it was happening all over again. When I wake up, I feel like I can’t move, like he’s on top of me. Sleep paralysis, they call it.” Her voice cracked and she found it hard to continue.

“Christ, Robin. I’m sor-“

“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice stronger. “Don’t say you’re sorry for me. I don’t want pity. It was a terrible thing to have happened, but…” she lifted her chin again, pride evident in her voice, “he’s in prison now. My evidence put him away. He wore a gorilla mask, so I never saw his face, but he had a patch of white skin behind his ear. It’s called vitiligo.”

Strike tried to honor her request and act like she hadn’t just confessed to this horrific, life-altering event, but he found it difficult. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her, whispering soothing words in her ear. But he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like pity. He decided on a slight change of subject.

“Is that why you’re interested in being a detective?” he asked.

“No, I think even before that I wanted to be an investigator. I’ve always wanted to help those that need it, to bring justice to the world, you know?”

Strike nodded. He  _ did _ know. It was the same reason he had left the SIB, where death was the only order of business, and started his own detective agency. He wanted to right the wrongs he had helped create.

“Have you always been psychic?” Robin asked.

“No…”

Robin was certain he wasn’t going to continue, but he did. “It was a few years before I left the SIB. I was on assignment in America when it…developed.”

“Why would they assign military to America?” Robin asked.

“There was a potential problem that needed investigating. It was a long time ago,” Strike said dismissively.

She wanted to ask more questions about what he did with the SIB and why he would be assigned to America, but she didn’t.  _ National secrets and all _ , she told herself. But even still, she couldn’t help but feel there was something off about his story.

The house they were watching remained quiet until after eleven that night. They watched as lights were turned off in some rooms and on in others as Casper made her way to bed. After the house had gone dark and the woman inside was most likely asleep, Strike spotted a male walking down the sidewalk carrying a holdall.

“Here we go,” he said, nodding his head towards the man.

Robin readied the camera and waited until the man was closer before clicking the shutter button in rapid succession.

“Did you get it?” Strike asked.

“I believe so,” Robin responded, taking more pictures as they watched the man unlock the garden gate and creep inside.

“Should we do something?” she asked. “What if Casper is in danger?”

“She’s not. Think about it. She’s been hearing her ‘ghost’ for weeks. He waits until after she’s gone to bed. He doesn’t wake her when he comes in.”

“That suggests he’s familiar with her habits,” Robin said slowly. “And the house. How else would he get in and out so easily?”

“Exactly,” Strike said proudly.

“He knows her,” Robin surmised, and Strike nodded. “Now what do we do?”

“We show her the pictures and let her decide what to do about it.”

Though he wasn’t ready to part from Robin and the pseudo-heartbeat fluttering against his chest, Strike started his car and pulled away from the curb, turning towards her home.

***

Casper was due in the office just after lunch the following day for an update on her case. Strike got the pictures developed that morning and added them to the case file. He had given Robin the morning off once again. He was concerned by her general look of fatigue. Now that he knew it probably had more to do with her nightmares, or sleep paralysis, he felt guilty about asking her to work late. 

Today was also supposed to be her last day at the office and he was still struggling with whether or not he should ask her to stay. If Ilsa was right, and there was no way to prevent his vision from coming true, then he might as well ask her to stay. She was an extremely efficient and valuable employee. She had good instincts, she learned quickly, and the pictures she had taken the previous night were exemplary. 

He was also curious about what other,  _ hidden _ , talents she might have. He couldn’t understand it. She didn’t smell like a witch, but he couldn’t think of any other reason why he couldn’t bend her mind to his will. She couldn’t possibly be human, could she? It was a puzzle he was desperate to solve, along with why her presence made his bird mark tick like a heartbeat.

Robin arrived a short while before Casper was due in the office. He felt her coming, as the ticking of his bird grew steadily stronger as she got closer. It seemed whatever connection they had was strengthening; his bird seemed to have more “range” now.  _ Interesting _ . Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe it was just the anticipation of her presence.

Half an hour later, Casper was seated in his inner office. He had asked Robin to sit in on the meeting as well, in case Casper needed female support. Strike showed their client the pictures and she sucked in a shocked gasp.

“That’s… that’s my ex-husband! Why would he be sneaking into the attic?”

“That, I’m afraid, we can’t answer for you,” Strike said. “But my guess would be that he hasn’t found a permanent place to stay since you’ve chucked him out.”

Casper continued to stare at the pictures in shock. Her expression softened, as she undoubtedly imagined her former husband struggling to get back on his feet after their separation. Despite the unhappiness that had plagued her own relationship of late, Robin thought she could understand how the older woman must be feeling. 

Casper nodded her head. “Thank you. I didn’t realize he was having such a hard time. I’ll speak with him. Thank you, again.”

“Certainly. Robin will help you settle the final invoice.” Strike stood, an indication for the women to do the same, and handed Casper a business card. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can help you with.”

Casper nodded and followed Robin back out to the outer office. After the woman had left, Strike went out to the kitchenette to make a cup of tea for himself and Robin.

“What do you say we go out to celebrate this evening? You’re first case closed.”

Robin smiled, then looked hesitant. “Yes, that would be lovely. Do you mind if I invite my fiancé? Only I haven’t seen him much this week, and I’d love for you to meet.”

Strike could think of nothing he wanted to do less, but responded anyway, “Yeah, OK. Great.”

He set her mug of tea beside her and turned to go back into his office, irritated by the reminder that she had a fiancé. 

“Cormoran,” Robin stopped him. He turned back to her and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. “I was thinking… I’ve had a look at the finances, and I reckon you could afford to hire me on full-time, if we cut out the temp agency.”

_ Fate _ , he chuckled to himself. 

***

They met at a pub close to Matthew’s work. Strike was immediately unimpressed by the general air of “trying too hard” that emanated from both the pub and the fiancé. He was the most excessively dull human Strike had ever had the displeasure of meeting. He had to admit that the man was attractive, and he found himself wondering if that was what had drawn Robin to him. 

Matthew talked about himself almost without end, each story designed to not only paint him in the best light, but to also diminish the worth of every other person in the story, including Robin. Strike said nothing, but nodded politely along with every story while Robin shot him surreptitious glances from across the table. 

Though he tried not to listen to her, Strike caught occasional snippets of thought or emotion, the predominant of which seemed to be embarrassment. 

When Robin announced that she would be staying on at the detective agency as a permanent employee, her fiancé’s face had fallen, his lips pinching into a thin line. He turned to Robin to mutter angrily in her ear and Strike loudly excused himself to the loo, only making the moment more awkward.

Strike returned to the table to find the couple silent but clearly still angry. Robin had her arms crossed over her chest. He didn’t need to scan her mind to surmise what had taken place in his absence. Strike finished his drink and then made his excuses, saying that he would see Robin on Monday. 

As he walked away, he could feel Robin’s eyes on his back. Over the din of the pub, he heard her voice loud and clear, and knew that she hadn’t spoken aloud. “I wish I could come with you.”

Strike’s step faltered for just a moment, before he gained the welcoming cool air of the street, where he lit a much-needed cigarette.

***

Robin and Matthew rowed yet again that night when they got home. Though she was already tired from not sleeping well, she took her pillow and a blanket and slept on the sofa. She woke a few short hours later, panic-stricken and unable to breathe, with a crushing weight on her chest. 

When dawn arrived and sunlight streamed through the window and across her face, Robin felt twice as exhausted as she had before she had gone to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a squick warning. But you've willingly made it this far in a story about supernatural creatures, so if this chapter isn't your thing, that's on you 😂. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Previously...  
> Strike learns of Robin's attack at uni and subsequent sleep paralysis. The detectives close the Casper case and go out to celebrate. Strike meets Matthew, which doesn't go as well as Robin had hoped.

The next morning, Strike awoke to a text from Barclay.

**Need to talk. Meet for lunch?**

Strike texted back, saying to let him know what time and place, and the two eventually agreed on the Tottenham. 

Barclay was already in place and looking anxious when the detective arrived. Strike got himself a pint and made his way over to the table. 

“What’s up?”

“We might have a problem.”

“What’s that?” Strike asked as he slid into his seat and took a pull from his pint.

“We went back tae Queen’s Wood last night an’ the others in the group were all talkin’ aboot turnin’ their partners. Some o’ them had already done it, some o’ them were plannin’ tae. They were urgin’ Roy to turn yer client.”

“Fuck. That means Charlotte was right. She reckons they’ve been recruiting.” Strike scrubbed a hand through his hair, wondering if he should call his ex-fiancé. 

“Well, she’s no’ wrong. But there’s more. There’s some ceremony they’re plannin’ next full moon. They want the Transitions tae bring their partners after they’ve turned ‘em,” Barclay said, taking a long pull from his own pint.

“Do you know what kind of ceremony?”

“All I heard was somethin’ aboot breedin’.”

“Breeding? I thought Transitions couldn’t breed,” Strike said with alarm.

“They can’t, only Naturals can give birth tae another wolf. An’ that’s only if they’re properly mated. O’ course many are now, since pack rules are a lot more lax now than they used tae be before ’45. Most packs don’ even have an alpha anymore, since most o’ the more powerful bloodlines were wiped oot at Culloden. The pack isnae as strong withoot an alpha, but A personally would rather be withoot a pack at all than have tae ask permission tae be mated tae me wife,” the Scot explained.

Strike paused with his beer halfway to his lips. “Do they have an alpha?”

“If they do, A haven’t met him.” 

“But you  _ think _ they do?” Strike surmised.

Barclay sighed. “A reckon they do, aye.”

Strike nodded, taking it all in. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll talk to Cherise tomorrow, try to get her somewhere else to stay.”

“Do ye need me there, just in case?”

Strike appreciated the offer, but not the insinuation of weakness. “No, you stay undercover. I’ll go before dark. Just keep an eye Roy.”

Strike texted Robin as he left the pub a while later.

**I know it’s a Saturday, but are you free this afternoon? I could use your help with something.**

Her response was almost immediate.

**Sure! What do you need?**

Strike asked her to meet him at their client’s house. All he told her was that he thought Roy might be dangerous, and that he wanted to help Cherise get somewhere safe. She didn’t need to know their client might be in danger of being turned into a werewolf.

***

Later that afternoon, Robin found Strike outside their client’s house, finishing a cigarette. He sincerely wished that he had called Coco last night, or anyone for that matter, even if he did find her company grating. He needed blood, and this was not the best time to be weak, given that there was a pack of Moonlighters running loose in London with a suspicious agenda. But he wasn’t anxious for his own wellbeing. It was only Robin’s safety he thought of, and he was relieved to see her striding up the sidewalk towards him, healthy and whole.

Strike stubbed out his cigarette with his heel and they approached the door together. “Thanks for doing this,” Strike said. “I thought it might be better for her with a woman present.” 

Strike’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and saw that Barclay was calling him. “Sam? What’s up?”

“It’s fucked! We were in the gym, an’ he went tae the changing rooms, or so A thought. Sorry, Boss but A’ve lost him.”

“Fucking Christ!” Strike exclaimed as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “Barclay’s lost Roy. We need to get her out of here, quick,” he explained to Robin.

Thankfully Cherise was expecting them, as Strike had called to let her know they had news about her case. 

“We have reason to suspect that your boyfriend might be dangerous. Is there somewhere else you can stay tonight?” Strike tried not to rush as he broke the news once they were comfortably seated in the living room.

Robin was quickly becoming accustomed to the looks of shock and dismay that accompanied the news they delivered to their clients. Cherise’s eyes widened predictably as she struggled to comprehend what she herself had suspected when she hired them.

“Is it drugs? Is he into drugs?” she asked, wringing her hands together in her lap.

“We have a man undercover in his gym group, trying to find out more. The important thing for you to know right now, is that I think he may try to come here tonight, and I think he might try to hurt you. Do you have somewhere to stay? My partner here can help you get your things together, and we can take you to a hotel or somewhere else.”

Cherise’s eyes darted between Strike and Robin. She swallowed, thinking. “Erm, yeah. I can probably stay with my girlfriend.”

“Great,” Strike began. “Robin can – “ he was cut off by the sound of the front door opening. 

Strike tried to appear unperturbed, but Robin could see that he was tense, his muscles coiled and ready to spring. Roy strode into the room cautiously, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air. When he caught sight of Strike, he froze and his eyes widened. 

Strike stood slowly, his hands raised in front of him in a gesture of surrender. Robin and Cherise had stood as well, the air so thick with tension that it was an almost palpable, physical weight on the room. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but Strike knew that with the full moon on the rise, Roy’s instincts would be kicking into overdrive. 

Roy’s face darkened and twisted into a snarl. He dropped into a crouch, a deep growl issuing from his throat. His eyes flashed, a ring of silver surrounding his irises. Strike subtly pushed Robin behind him, shielding her from view of the wolf that was obviously losing control, even though the full moon wouldn’t peak for a few hours still. Roy saw the movement, his eyes locking onto Robin as his new target.

“Robin, go!” Strike urged, but Robin stood rooted to the spot.

Roy began to circle them, looking for a way in. Strike tried to push Robin to the door, but she was protesting, saying she wouldn’t leave him.

Strike felt his monster coming to the surface. His fangs elongated and his eyes darkened. Roy smirked, and the detective could see the decision to attack forming in the other man’s mind, as well as hear it in his thoughts.

Strike turned to Robin and roared, “Get out of here! Run!”

Robin stumbled backwards at the ferocity of his voice, the flash of fangs, the ring of red surrounding his irises.

Cherise bolted out the door and down the street, running as fast as she could. Roy launched himself towards Robin, Strike catching him round the middle and tumbling to the ground on top of him. The pair wrestled and thrashed as Roy tried to escape and Strike tried to subdue him. Robin stood frozen in place, the panic starting to creep in.

Roy seized a handful of Strike’s hair and yanked his head to the side. He sank his teeth into the detective’s neck. Strike roared with rage and pain as he struggled to throw Roy off in his weakened state.

The sight of her partner locked in the violent scuffle finally awoke something within Robin. Hardly considering what she was doing, she picked up a heavy candlestick from the coffee table and crept up to the pair struggling on the floor. With all the strength she could muster, she swung the candlestick into the back of Roy’s head, knocking him unconscious. Strike pushed the limp form off his body and got unsteadily to his feet, one hand clamped to the base of his neck where the new wolf had bitten him. 

“I thought I told you to get out of here,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You’re welcome,” Robin retorted. 

“Let’s go before he wakes up.” Strike was breathing heavily and swayed slightly where he stood.

“Is he…”

“He’ll be fine,” Strike cut in, his eyes clenching from the pain radiating from the wound. He had hardly an ounce of concern to spare for what Cherise had seen.

Robin wrapped an arm around his waist, helping to steady him.

“We should get you to casualty,” Robin huffed under the strain of trying to support her large partner.

“No!” Strike said vehemently. “I just need to get home,” he grunted.

Robin held out her hand for his keys and helped him to his car. She drove as quickly as she could, concerned by his occasional grunts of pain and labored breathing. She parked a short distance from the office building in what she hoped was not a tow zone. Strike struggled to get out of the car and stumbled into the door. Robin once again tucked herself into his side and supported him into the building. 

Through sheer force of will, Strike hauled himself up the stairs to his flat. Robin meant to deposit him in his chair, but he stumbled into the kitchen instead. 

“Do you need your medicine?” she asked as she looked in his fridge for the green bottle.

“I’m out,” he grunted.

Robin turned to find him slicing at the wound on his neck with a knife. He winced in pain as his skin opened anew.

“What are you doing?” Robin exclaimed.

Strike dropped the knife, where it fell into the sink with a clatter. He squeezed at the wound on his neck, and dark blood oozed out.

“I need to get the venom out,” he said through clenched teeth, hardly caring if his statement made sense to her or not. “Fuck, this isn’t working,” he huffed in frustration and slumped against the sink, overwhelmed by the agony.

“Venom like a snake bite?” Robin asked.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

Hesitantly, Robin ventured, “Aren’t you supposed to suck the venom from a snake bite? I could – “

“No,” he cut her off. “I can manage.”

“Could it kill you?” she asked quietly.

“It shouldn’t. But it’ll hurt like  _ fuck _ .” He sucked in a breath through his teeth and closed his eyes against the pain. He hoped he was right, that it wouldn’t kill him. He knew that new wolves didn’t have very strong venom, and Roy hadn’t even transformed for the first time. But it was also a full moon tonight.

He was so distracted that he didn’t hear Robin approach him, nor did he notice when she pulled his hand away from the wound. Stealing her resolve, Robin quickly lowered her mouth to the wound and sucked. Strike tried to push her away, but he was weak. She grasped his wrists and pulled him closer to her. Her mouth filled with the taste of sour mud. She spat a mouthful into the sink and latched back onto the wound. She spat another mouthful into the sink and returned to his neck once more. She didn’t know how long she needed to suck to clear the venom, but suddenly the flavor changed and she instinctively knew that she had succeeded.

The flavor of him surprised her. It wasn’t salty or metallic, but rather rich and smooth like dark chocolate. Strike’s hand dropped to her waist and squeezed, a small moan escaping his throat. Robin sucked for a second longer than necessary, before she remembered herself and pulled away, spitting the last mouthful into the sink.

Strike turned away from her and she rinsed her mouth, her mind working furiously. Slowly, one by one, pieces of a puzzle she didn’t know she was trying to solve slid into place. He could read her mind; a night out away from home seemed to strengthen him from some illness; he had a bottle of some darkly-colored “medicine” in his fridge; Roy’s eyes had gleamed silver; Strike’s eyes had shone red, and he had…  _ fangs _ . And Roy’s bite carried a “venom” that caused him a lot of pain and could possibly kill him.

Her brain struggled to accept what she had seen with her own eyes. She never would have believed it were possible; she would have scoffed if he himself had told her. He had his back to her now, tightly gripping the countertop in his small kitchen. He was still slumped forward and breathing heavily. Robin picked up the knife from the sink. Strike’s head jerked up.

“What are you doing?” he asked, halfway turning toward her. He saw the knife slice into her palm, heard her muttered oath at the pain, and turned resolutely away from her again.

“Robin…” he said in warning.

She stepped closer to him, holding out her palm. She swallowed heavily. “Is this what you need?”

Strike found it hard to respond, hard to concentrate with the smell of her blood wafting towards him. “Robin, please go,” he ground out.

“I want to help you. This will help you, won’t it?” she asked quietly. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” He sounded angry.

Robin matched him in her frustration. “Come off it, Cormoran. Don’t tell me I cut my hand open for nothing.”

Strike turned to her in a sudden movement that took her breath away. Robin realized that he had backed her up against the wall before she had even had time to register the movement. He was holding her wrist up close to his face, his eyes had again turned dark and were ringed in red. She saw a flash of fangs as he spoke, his voice colored with anger.

“Is this what you wanted? You  _ enjoy  _ being this close to a monster?” He brought her hand closer to his mouth and inhaled deeply. “You want me to drink from you? You want to feel my fangs sinking into your flesh? Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you?”

Robin’s heart stuttered, though not out of fear. “I want to help you,” she whispered. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” he snarled at her. “I kill people, Robin. That’s how I survive. I’m the villain here, not the hero.”

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it already,” she challenged. Her face turned triumphant as Strike swayed sideways, still destabilized from being bitten. 

“You’re weak,” she said. “Just let me do this for you.”

She pushed her hand closer to his mouth, and his eyes closed as he let out a small moan at the smell of her. Almost against his will, his tongue darted out to catch a droplet of blood that slid down her wrist and forearm. He moaned at the taste of her, his tongue chasing the drop over her skin, back up and over her wrist. He cupped her hand gently in his and opened his eyes.

“Go on,” Robin encouraged. “I trust you,” she repeated in a whisper. 

Strike groaned as he felt his resolve crumbling. He desperately needed blood, and it was being willingly offered to him. Her flavor lingered on his tongue and he was powerless to resist.

“When I pull from you, you might get…aroused. But I promise I won’t touch you,” he murmured.

Robin sucked in a shaky breath and nodded, distracted by the wetness she could feel on her wrist where he had licked her skin.

“Do you need much?” she asked. She trusted him implicitly, but still her heart raced with anticipation and just a hint of fear.

He shook his head and lowered his mouth to her palm. His lips locked around the cut and he sucked lightly. His lips were warm and the gentle pull of his mouth against her skin tickled. Sparks rippled across her flesh from his touch. Robin’s mind wandered, marveling at the feel of him and what it might be like to have his lips against her neck, suckling there. What would those little sparks feel like on other parts of her body? She let out an involuntary moan and her head dipped back, almost begging him to take her neck.

Strike moaned as her essence flowed across his tongue. She tasted every bit as good as she smelled, like sunshine and warmth, musky and sweet. He had never tasted anything quite like her before. Her flavor was comforting, but also new and exciting. He caught snippets of her thoughts, which were too tangled and incoherent for whole sentences. But he got the message as she leaned her head back, exposing her neck to him. Much as he wanted to nuzzle into the hollow of her throat to drink from her there, he resisted, telling himself that it was unnecessary and inappropriately intimate. 

She pressed her body against his and he could smell her arousal. He turned his hips away from her, trying to hide the tightening in his trousers. He could feel his strength returning with every mouthful of her life-giving essence. He took one more pull from her and swallowed, and suddenly his heart thudded a heavy beat, as if it were being jump-started. It settled into a steady rhythm with his bird and he pulled his mouth away from her skin to look into her eyes. 

She was very much alive, he hadn’t taken that much blood from her.  _ How is my heart beating? _

“Are you alright?” he asked her, his voice husky.

Robin nodded, still breathing heavily as if they had been engaged in a much more strenuous activity. She knew she should be relieved that he had kept his promise not to touch her, but she wasn’t.

Strike lowered his head back to her palm and licked at the blood remaining there. Then he pressed his tongue against the cut, using his saliva to stop the bleeding.

“I can heal it if you like,” he offered.

Robin nodded again, noticing that the wound on his neck was completely healed, with not even a scar remaining. Strike poked his finger against his sharpened fang, and a bead of blood appeared. He swiped it gently against the cut on her palm. Robin watched in fascination as the cut closed, the skin stitching seamlessly back together. No trace of the wound remained. 

Strike swallowed heavily as she looked back up at him. She smiled at his look of uncertainty as he released her hand. There was much she wanted to say, and much that he wanted to hear, but neither said a word. Feeling it was probably best at this point for her to leave him in peace, Robin turned to the door.

“Robin,” he stopped her, and she twisted back to face him. His eyes were still dark, but not from the predator hidden within. His face showed more than desire as he reached for her, stopped, and let his hand fall back to his side clenched in a fist. “Thank you,” he managed. 

Robin smiled weakly at him, and turned to leave once more. 

Again, he stopped her. “Wait. Let me take you home. It’s… It could still be dangerous out there.”

“Seems to me like you’re in greater danger than I am tonight.”

Strike nodded solemnly at her tacit confession that she understood much more than he had told her. He dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Here, at least take my car. Text me to let me know you got home safely.”

“I will, thank you.”

As she took the keys from him, Strike allowed his hand to brush against hers and she didn’t pull away. They both sucked in an unsteady breath, relishing that familiar spark that traced over their skin at the contact. Before he could do something stupid, Strike pulled his hand away and stepped back from her. Robin took her cue and left, looking back at him as she pulled the door closed behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Barclay updates Strike about a ceremony the mysterious Moonlighter pack has planned. Robin meets Strike to help him get their client to safety, which ends disastrously. Robin offers Strike her blood to heal him.

When Robin arrived at home, Matthew was still out. After initially being put out that she would be working on a Saturday afternoon, he had made plans to meet some of his friends for drinks. Robin was quite relieved to come home to silence. She locked the door and tossed her keys on the side table, then strode into the kitchen. Mechanically, she filled a glass with water from the tap and gulped it down, her hands shaking slightly. 

Needing something a bit stronger, she pulled out a bottle of wine. She hesitated at the point of opening it, the dark liquid glistening back at her, reminding her of what had transpired that evening. She returned the bottle to the cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky instead. She poured herself a generous measure and swigged it down as greedily as she had the glass of water. 

Robin traced a finger over her palm where she had sliced it open. Not a scratch remained; there was no sign whatsoever of the wound the blade had inflicted. There was also no trace of the blood that had been used to heal it. 

Robin suddenly remembered that she was supposed to text Strike to let him know she was safe. She fired off a quick message and switched her phone to silent, needing no further reminders of what had taken place in the flat above the office.

Though she tried, the scene kept replaying itself in her head. Strike had drank her blood, and there was a moment where she had wanted to drink his. Most disturbingly of all, she had liked it. All of it.

Robin poured herself another glass of whisky.

***

Strike sat in his darkening flat, listening to the pounding of his heart. He couldn’t understand it. Robin was alive, and yet her essence had set his heart beating. He hadn’t felt his heart beating since… well, not for a long time. He had had a few setbacks, a few relapses since his promise to the Cherokee, but he had been what he liked to think of as “sober” for more than a century. 

And now, like an alcoholic being presented with a glass of fine brandy, he was reminded of just how exhilarating it was to feel  _ alive _ . And he hadn’t had to take a life to achieve it. Was this how Robin would heal his curse? If just a little of her blood set his heart beating, what would happen if he consumed her completely? The thought filled him with revulsion and dread.

Unbidden, his mind was filled with the face of the Cherokee shaman as Strike had confessed his reluctance to taking the lives of others.

***

_ Musket fire sounded through the trees, as bullets and arrows whizzed through the air, alarmingly close to villages. The war took no notice of civilian life. The forest was littered with bodies; unfortunate souls who had been caught in the crossfire.  _

_ Strike looked around in disgust. He had not been personally responsible for these deaths, but on his head they weighed nonetheless. Near him, a baby screamed and cried, clutched to the bleeding chest of its mother, her unseeing eyes staring at the cloudless sky. There was nothing he could do for her now. _

_ A rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs brought his attention to the bush behind him. A small boy was trying to drag himself into the shelter of the branches, terrified by the monster he saw before him. And Strike suddenly saw himself for what he was – a monster. He had not personally injured this boy, but he had been part of the army that brought this war to the boy’s doorstep, senselessly slaughtering those who had tried to escape in the aftermath of the Jacobite rising. There was no point to this war, no need for this young boy to suffer, no reason for the crying babe to grow up without a mother. _

_ Strike recognized the boy as a Cherokee, one of the few tribes who had not joined the colonists’ war for independence. Naturally, it would be a Cherokee village that was decimated from a war they didn’t want. _

_ “I won’t hurt you,” Strike said as he crouched near the boy, extending a hand. The Cherokee were known for learning many languages, but he said, “Unalii,” in the boy’s own language, just in case. “ _ Friend _.” _

_ The boy accepted Strike’s hand, allowing his enemy to pull him from cover. It was then that Strike realized the boy had been shot in the leg. Blood trickled down from the hole in the side of his thigh. _

_ “I can help you,” Strike said, gesturing to his leg. “Alisdelvdi, help.” _

_ The boy nodded, looking frightened. _

_ “I have to get the bullet out. This will hurt. Atsisonvnv.” _

_ The boy nodded apprehensively again as Strike pulled out a small silver blade. He nodded at the boy as if to say, “Get ready,” then dug the blade swiftly and efficiently into the boy’s leg, popping out the silver musket ball. The boy gritted his teeth and let out a quiet, closed-mouth scream, his face reddening and sweat breaking out on his forehead. _

_ “It’s done, it’s over,” Strike said. “I can heal you. Kanvwodi.” _

_ The boy watched with widened eyes as Strike sliced open his own hand with the blade, and pressed it to the boy’s wound. _

_ Strike’s head snapped up at the sudden sound of quiet footsteps approaching him. Human ears would have heard nothing at all. He looked up into the head of an arrow, pointing right between his eyes. Strike slowly lifted his hands in surrender, as more Cherokee stepped out of the shadows, surrounding him. Bowstrings tightened when the boy looked down at his leg and squealed, his wound stitching itself back together. All eyes widened in shock, looking back and forth between the healing flesh and Strike. _

_ “What you do?” one of the men near Strike exclaimed in broken English. _

_ “I helped him. He was shot, and I healed him.” _

_ The man said something to the boy in Cherokee, but the words were too fast for Strike to comprehend – his knowledge of the language was limited. The boy nodded and said something in return. The man’s head whipped back to Strike. _

_ “You come with us.” _

_ A foot nudged Strike in the back and he got to his feet, hands still in the air. He followed the group of men back to the heart of their village, where the shaman was waiting for them in the center. A quiet message was relayed to the spiritual leader and he nodded his head and turned to address Strike. _

_ “He is Gigadanegisgi now? A blood taker?” the shaman asked, indicating the boy with his head. _

_ “No, he is still like you. I only healed him.” _

_ “How do you heal him?” _

_ “With my blood,” Strike explained, hoping they were not about to flay him open to take all of his live-giving blood. _

_ “Why?” the shaman asked, looking at Strike appraisingly. _

_ “I didn’t want him to die,” Strike murmured, remembering the empty eyes of the dead mother. _

_ “You do not like death?” the shaman asked, as if he had never heard anything so ridiculous as a Gigadanegisgi who did not revel in the loss of human life. _

_ Strike shook his head solemnly, realizing the truth, “No, I don’t.” _

_ “Show me,” the shaman said, and he turned abruptly and strode towards one of the wampums. _

_ Strike gathered that he was supposed to follow the shaman into the wampum. Inside, he found an infirmary of sorts. There were several men and women that had been severely wounded and were waiting for death to take them. _

_ “You can heal them?” the shaman asked.  _

_ Strike took in the devastation around him and slowly nodded his head. The shaman gestured to the closest man, who had been stabbed through the chest. The blade had pierced his lung, and he gurgled painfully with every breath. Strike pulled out the small blade he kept around his ankle and split his palm open again. He held his hand over the wound, allowing his blood to drip inside. He then stepped back, so the shaman could watch as the wound in the man’s chest closed itself. The shaman yelped and jumped back, his head whipping around to look at Strike, and back to the injured man. The man sat up slowly, clutching confusedly at his chest, no longer in pain. _

_ The shaman turned excitedly back to Strike and gestured around the tent. “More, many more!” _

_ Strike pierced his own flesh over and over, draining his life-force and healing the innocent – his penance for the monster he had never meant to become. _

***

_ Monster. _ Strike wondered if that was how Robin saw him now. She had sent a brief text that she was home safe, and nothing else. Strike wasn’t sure what he was expecting. There was probably no way she would want to talk to him now. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had run for the hills like Cherise had that afternoon. He knew he should be concerned for what his client had seen, that he should try to track her down and change her memory, but he just couldn’t seem to muster the mental energy. 

Instead, his mind was consumed with Robin. He wanted to speak to her, to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. He had crossed a line and there was no coming back; a line that she had urged him to cross. 

Strike chuckled humorlessly. She really was a good detective, if she had figured out that what he needed was blood. He wanted to know if she had worked out Roy’s identity as well, or Barclay’s for that matter. 

Twice Strike picked up his phone to call her, and twice he had dropped it back onto his lap. 

He pressed a hand to his chest, to his beating heart, and sighed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike reflects on the events that led to him receiving his gifts and bird mark from the Cherokee.

Robin was awoken sometime near midnight by the sounds of the shower running. It took her sleep-addled brain a while to realize that it was not morning. She wandered into the bathroom as Matthew was stepping out of the shower, water dripping over his smooth skin. 

“What’re you doing?” she asked sleepily. She had just drifted back to sleep after being awoken by yet another nightmare, unable to move. Her sleep paralysis had gotten worse over the past few days. She wondered if her unusual work hours were taking a toll. 

“What does it look like?” Matthew responded tersely. He turned away from her to grab a towel, and she noticed that low on his back, about where his kidney would be, were several scratches. It almost looked like an animal had clawed him, like a cat had tried to climb up his back.

“What happened there?” she asked. She reached out to touch the scratches and he jumped away from her. 

“Don’t touch it, it hurts!”

“What happened?”

“I fell, like a total tit. Scraped it on the sidewalk,” he said irritably.

“How did you do that?” Robin asked, still not quite fully awake.

“Got a little too pissed and tripped. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

As Robin ambled back to bed, it occurred to her that not only did Matthew not seem drunk, his back was an odd place to end up with scratches after falling.

***

When Strike arrived at Nick and Ilsa’s, it was to find Nick sitting at the dining room table, a tube draining blood from his arm into a glass bottle. The bottle was almost half full now. Nick pressed a cotton ball to the inside of his elbow, and removed the needle from his arm, allowing the last of the blood in the tube to drain into the bottle.

“All finished,” he said as Strike entered the kitchen. “Ilsa set out a bottle of wine for you.”

“Thanks, mate.” Strike opened the bottle of wine and carefully topped off his “medicine” bottle.

“Corm, you’re looking well,” Ilsa greeted him as she entered the kitchen. Her tone held a hint of accusation.

Ignoring this, he responded, “Have you found out anything about why I can’t influence Robin’s memory?”

“No, I thought you were going to bring her here so I could try to get a reading on her.”

“I didn’t ask…” And Strike told her about what had transpired the night before – about getting bitten by the recently turned wolf, Robin sucking out the venom, and then her offering him her blood. He kept the details of what she had tasted like to himself.

“Well, I need to meet her to know for sure if she’s a witch,” Ilsa said absently, thinking to herself.

“She can’t be a witch, Ils,” Strike said in exasperation. “I was able to drink from her without being poisoned. So she’s definitely not a witch. But she has to be  _ something _ . I mean, why is my heart beating?”

Ilsa shook her head. “I don’t know, Corm. I’ve never heard of that happening. How long does it usually beat for, after… you know?”

“It usually fades after a couple of days.”

“Has it faded yet?”

Strike shook his head.

“Hmm. What if I come by your office tomorrow, see what I can get off of her?”

“Great. Assuming, of course, she actually comes back,” Strike said wryly.

***

Strike arrived in the office early on Monday morning. His heartbeat was beginning to fade, and he was anxious for Robin’s presence so the thumping of his bird mark would take its place. He hadn’t heard from her the rest of the weekend, and he hadn’t reached out. He didn’t know what he would say if he did. As the clock ticked steadily closer to nine, he worried that Robin might not show up at all.

He was in the kitchenette, optimistically preparing two mugs of tea when he both heard and felt her approach. He smiled to himself as the door opened and she greeted him with her usual “Hiya,” while his bird greeted him with its warm pulse.

“Tea?” he asked, turning to hand her a mug.

“Yes, I could use the caffeine, thanks. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

Strike took in the dark circles under her eyes and her general look of fatigue. He couldn’t blame her for not being able to sleep after what she had seen on Saturday.

“You have a new client meeting at eleven,” she continued, starting up her computer and taking a grateful sip of her tea.

Strike leaned against the sink, watching her. He had feared her reaction to being in his presence again, but her total lack of anxiety was confusing and disconcerting. He quickly searched her thoughts, but she was only focused on emails.

When he was halfway down his mug of tea, he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. He had to know how she was handling the events of the previous Saturday. “How are you?” he ventured.

She turned to him slowly, tearing her eyes away from the email she was in the middle of reading. “Fine. Just a little tired, like I said.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Strike said, hoping she would understand what he was really trying to ask. 

Her face softened into a small smile. “I’m fine,” she said again, and turned back to her computer. 

Strike wanted to go to her. He wanted to feel her reassuring warmth in his arms. He wanted her to know how grateful he was for what she had done for him. The only thing he could think to offer her in return was answers to the questions she undoubtedly had, and the reassurance that he was not a danger to her.

“Robin,” he said her name softly, and waited for her to turn back to look at him. “Thank you, for what you did. You saved me from a lot of pain. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to see that. I just want you to know that I won’t use you like that again, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Cormoran, I told you before, I’m not afraid of you. I trust you.” She smiled warmly at him, and turned back to her computer. 

He heard that trust echoed in her thoughts and he crossed to the small sofa opposite from her and sat.

“That’s it? You don’t have any questions? There’s nothing else you want to say?”

Robin shrugged her shoulders. “Is there anything you want me to say?”

“Robin, I drank blood from your hand, then healed the cut with my own blood,” he said exasperatedly. “You saw me turn into a monster, and all you have to say is that you trust me?”

“Fine, it was weird,” Robin shot back, equally exasperated. Her face flushed as she continued, “Even weirder was that I liked it. Is that normal?” she asked quietly.

Strike nodded. “My pheromones make it enjoyable for you.”

“Do you do that…often?” Robin asked hesitantly.

“Not really, no. My friend Nick gives me some of his blood every now and then. That’s what was in my medicine bottle you got for me.”

Robin nodded, looked like she was on the verge of saying something else, then turned back to her computer.

“Is that really all you want to know?” Strike asked, half-exasperated still and half-amused.

Robin had been trying to respect his privacy, and play it cool. She didn’t want to bombard him with a million questions she was dying to know the answer to. She also didn’t want him to know how much she had enjoyed the feel of his lips on her skin, or the thrill she felt as he tasted her; she didn’t want to seem like a teen drama fangirl. And so she went on acting like seeing her boss with fangs and red eyes was a normal occurrence. But it seemed perhaps that he  _ wanted _ to talk about it. Maybe she could get answers to at least some of her queries.

She swallowed heavily and asked the question she most wanted to know and most dreaded hearing the answer to. “You said before that you kill people.”

She looked pleadingly in his eyes.  _ Is she concerned for her own safety or wanting me to deny it? _

“I haven’t in a very long time. I’ve learned control,” he said steadily, watching her reaction.

Robin swallowed again. “How long has it been, since…?”

Strike studied her for a moment, wondering at what point she would run screaming from the premises, then answered quietly. “The last one was in 1905.”

Robin nodded, then took a large, clumsy gulp of her tea. Some spilled out the side of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She hurried to wipe it. Strike smirked at finally getting a normal reaction out of her.

“How old are you?” she asked.

Strike smirked as he answered, “Thirty-five.” His voice softened as he continued, “But I was born in 1702.”

Robin’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. She took another sip of her tea to hide her momentary lapse in control. “Born, or  _ born _ ?” she asked.

Strike stifled a laugh. “Born. I was Awoken in 1737.”

Robin nodded slowly. “And you don’t age?” Strike shook his head, and Robin continued, “Because you’re a v-… a vampire.” It sounded ridiculous in her head, and even more so when she spoke it, despite the fact that he had just confessed to being over three hundred years old.

Strike smiled humorlessly. “We call ourselves Night Walkers. Somewhere along the way, ‘vampire’ became more prevalent in popular culture.”

She had almost expected him to deny it, but now that her unbelievable suspicions were confirmed, she wanted to know more. There were many pieces of the puzzle that still didn’t have a home in the completed picture. She figured she might as well take advantage of his cooperative mood and try to make sense of it all.

“How can you go out in the daytime?”

Strike chuckled. “Myth. If I haven’t fed in a while, the sun can be a little irritating, about like you getting a sunburn. But as long as I’m healthy, it doesn’t bother me. I’m also not affected by garlic, crosses, or holy water. In fact, we’re the ones that started those myths.”

Robin’s brows knit in confusion, then the answer seemed to don on her. “Because then if someone suspects you’re a vam- Night Walker, you have multiple tests that you can pass.”

Strike nodded encouragingly. “Exactly. Just like the witch trials didn’t actually catch any witches.”

“There are witches?” Robin squeaked.

“All legends are based in reality,” Strike smirked.

“So what is Roy, exactly?”

“What are your theories?” Strike countered.

“His eyes were silver. It reminded me of how a cat’s eyes glow in the darkness.” Strike nodded and gestured with his hand in a way that said, “Go on.” 

“Is he a… a werewolf?”

“Very good. They call themselves Moonlighters. But again, names change over time.”

“And that’s why his bite hurt you?” Strike nodded. “What if he had bitten me?” Robin asked.

“He hadn’t transformed for his first time yet, so his venom wouldn’t have been strong enough to do anything to you, I don’t think. But it was the night of the full moon, so I’m not sure. But from one that had already become a fully-fledged wolf, the bite would have turned you into one as well.”

Robin nodded, contemplating the notion that at least some myths are true.

“How can you eat food? Is that another myth?”

“No, that one’s not a myth. Others like me can’t obtain nutrients from human food. They can eat it if they have to, but it does nothing for them.”

“How can you eat food then? Or do you eat  _ human _ food just to fit in?” Robin wondered.

Strike hesitated. They were approaching dangerous territory, subjects he wasn’t sure he wanted to share with her.

“I’m a little different than others of my kind. Being able to eat human food is a gift that was given to me by a shaman a long time ago.”

“Why did he do that?” Robin asked.

Strike answered her quietly, “Because I helped his village. And I told him that I didn’t want to kill anymore.”

Robin nodded. She had many, many more questions, but she sensed the interview was over. Strike was looking intently at her, his heated gaze holding her liquid blue eyes. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and suddenly all she could think about was the gentle pull of his mouth as he had drank from her hand. His lips had been warm and soft, and she wondered what they would feel like against her own.

As she blushed, Strike heard her think, “I wonder if he’s a good kisser?”

Strike drained the last of his tea, just to occupy his mouth before he decided to cross to her desk and show her the answer to her question. He spent the rest of the morning in his office, ignoring his bird that was urging him to find out what her lips tasted like.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin notices Matthew has scratches on his back. Strike talks to Ilsa about whether or not Robin could be a witch. Robin and Strike talk about the nature of his condition.

The new client turned out to be a woman who thought her husband might be having an affair. There had been suspicious text messages, late nights, cancelled dates. He had become secretive and oddly possessive of his phone. There had been other strange behavior, such as occasionally taking a shower when he came home from work.

Throughout the woman’s account, Robin couldn’t help but think she was probably right – it did sound like the husband was having an affair. She also couldn’t help but draw parallels with her own life. Matthew had been guilty of a few of those behaviors himself lately. 

Strike was relieved to have a “normal” client for once. He had to admit that Robin’s website had been a good idea, and would invariably help to grow his business. It would be nice not to have to use his gifts for all of the cases, so that he could save his strength for more important matters. 

He was working out a surveillance schedule with Robin when Ilsa arrived in the office to take him out to lunch. Ilsa introduced herself to Robin and just managed to stifle a gasp as the women shook hands. Strike noticed her reaction, but he didn’t think Robin had. He tried to catch Ilsa’s eye, but his friend was resolutely avoiding looking in his direction while she exchanged pleasantries with Robin.

Robin stayed in the office while Strike went to lunch with his friend, not wanting to intrude on their time together. Plus she had brought a healthy lunch with her today, conscious of her upcoming nuptials. The thought of looking good in a wedding dress did not bring her any pleasure as she stared moodily at her soup.

***

“Well?” Strike asked as soon as they had sat at an open table. Even though he knew the answer, he was still anxious to hear Ilsa’s assessment.

“She’s definitely not a witch. But there’s  _ something _ there I think.”

“What do you mean?” Strike asked sharply, taking a sip of his pint.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never encountered anything quite like it. It’s almost as if she’s cloaking her identity somehow.”

“How could she be doing that?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Ilsa said sardonically. “But she must have  _ some _ kind of magic, then.”

“How many magical beings could there possibly be?” Strike asked almost to himself, but Ilsa heard his grumpy reply.

“You could help, you know,” she said, in a frustrated tone. “Have you ever smelled or…  _ tasted _ … anything like her before? And you don’t have to give me too many details here,” she warned.

Strike just shook his head. “Have you found anything about why my heart started beating without killing her?”

“No, but I’ll do some more research. But there’s something else as well.”

Strike raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to continue. 

“I might have had a hard time reading her because… there’s a darkness surrounding her.”

Strike leveled her with a look. “You think every woman in my life is evil.”

“That’s because most of them are. But that’s not what I meant. It felt separate from her, but attached, if that makes any sense.”

“Not really, no. What do you think that could mean?” Strike took a long drink of his pint, wondering if the darkness Ilsa sensed could possibly just be Robin’s unfortunate fate of having to die to end his curse. He voiced this thought after a moment of silence, but she shook her head.

“That would be a form of precognition, I think, which I don’t have. It’s almost like she has a second aura, like someone else’s is attached to hers.”

Strike opened his mouth to point out that this lent further credence to his theory that he himself was the darkness, but Ilsa again cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s not yours. Your aura is much lighter than this. It’s actually quite pleasant for a Night Walker,” she teased, causing him to pull a face at her.

“So what do you think it is? Demonic possession?” he teased. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. My best guess would be that another witch is using her, like a familiar. You’re sure she’s never been involved with non-humans before?”

Strike gestured helplessly. “How would I know? She’s never mentioned anything, but I would say probably not. She didn’t know anything about me or Moonlighters, and she seemed genuinely surprised to learn that witches are real.”

“Do you know if she ever blacks out, or loses time, or anything like that?”

“Not that I’ve seen, and not that she’s mentioned.” Strike stuffed several chips into his mouth, which were growing cold as Ilsa continued to distract him from eating. 

“Well I would think she would know if she was a familiar,” Ilsa mused. “But I’ll add it to my list. I have an appointment at the archives next week.”

“You couldn’t get anything sooner?” Strike complained.

“Well, when I wouldn’t tell them what I was wanting access for, they didn’t exactly put me on the short list. Lucky for you I have a clean record, or they probably wouldn’t have let me in at all.”

“Lucky you’re a good little witch who never sets a toe out of line,” he teased.

“Might I remind you, hexing Night Walkers isn’t against the rules.”

“I’m already cursed,” he reminded her. 

“The fact that you think so is the only reason I would even consider being friends with a blood sucker to begin with.”

They were both quiet for a minute, before Ilsa continued kindly, “Are you really going to go through with it, Corm?” She didn’t have to explain what “it” was.

“I don’t know, Ils.”

“I get the feeling maybe you like her more than you’ve let on. It just seems like a lot of trouble to go through, researching God knows what, almost like you’re trying to protect her.”

“I don’t want to hurt her, Ilsa,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a direct answer to her inquiry, and yet that one phrase told her so much more than she had asked. She knew how long he had hated what he was, and how much hope he had put in one day being able to end it all. She knew how strongly he must feel about his Robin if he were willing to give up the chance at being human again.

“We’ll find a way, Corm. We’ll figure something out.”

He nodded, looking down at his food. “Thank you,” he muttered.

***

Strike took the first surveillance shift for their new client that afternoon. Now that Robin knew everything, she could stay in the office to update the files on Roy’s case. She was fairly certain they weren’t going to be getting payment from Cherise anytime soon, but she left a message for their client nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Strike snuggled deeper into his coat as he waited for the object of his surveillance to come out of the pub where the man was having drinks with what Strike assumed were coworkers. Strike could feel the effects of Robin’s blood fading rapidly. His heartbeat had finally stopped a couple of hours previously and he was now missing its comforting presence. He wished Robin were here with him now, so that at least he would have the pulsing of his bird to warm his chest. 

His stump was starting to hurt after standing and walking on it for a better part of the day. But at least the sun had finally dropped low enough that the streets were bathed in shadows; the light had been starting to get uncomfortable as Robin’s blood continued to diminish from his system. 

Coco called him, but he ignored it. She was proving hard to shake, and he knew he would probably have to face her eventually, but not today. Maybe if he continued to ignore her, she would eventually get the hint and give up. Even though he could always use the blood, and he certainly enjoyed sex, there was nothing less appealing to him at the moment than the thought of sinking his teeth into another woman’s neck. The memory of Robin’s flavor and the electric zing of her touch consumed his mind. He rubbed his hand across his now silent chest. Robin’s blood had affected him in ways he had never experienced. How could he possibly move on from that? It was as if he were seeing every other woman in black and white, when Robin was a dazzling array of color. He itched to see her again, to touch her again, and  _ fuck  _ if he didn’t want to taste her again.

Strike was rapidly becoming bored and restless watching his mundane human target doing mundane human things. He knew he should be thankful to be able to save his strength, but this inactivity was giving his mind too much time to wander. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his thoughts away from Robin. How quickly he had gotten used to her company, especially during the uneventful hours spent on surveillance. He wished he could hear more of her stories about gymkhanas, or her family in Yorkshire, or her pet pony and Rowntree. He just wanted to hear her voice or see her smile. He had been trying not to think about the prophecy for the last several days, and he pushed it to the back of his mind now as it started to worm its way up to the surface of his thoughts. He didn’t allow himself to think about it, because he had come to realize there was no way he would be able to kill her when the time came. He would rather die a thousand deaths than steal her life from her. But how do you change fate? He hoped Ilsa would have some answers for him soon.

Strike lit a cigarette as his target went up to the bar to get another round of drinks. He wondered how Robin was handling the revelations of that morning. She had seemed fine, but then, finding out that vampires and werewolves actually exist is a lot to take in. He recalled her story about being attacked at uni, and how she had had trouble adjusting ever since. Sleep paralysis, she said. He hoped recent events wouldn’t make that worse for her.

He had never known someone that had suffered from sleep paralysis, but he remembered when it was first diagnosed in the early twentieth century. In his youth, he had always been warned to say his prayers before bed, lest he be visited by the Night-mare demon. His mother, as part of her increasingly ludicrous tendency to believe whole-heartedly in the unbelievable, had sewn a “spelled” sachet into his mattress to ward off the evil spirits. As science had slowly replaced the predominant superstitions of modern culture, the condition had come to be known as sleep paralysis, and was not, in fact, caused by a demon sitting on your chest. 

His reverie was interrupted by a text from Barclay:

**With Roy. Can’t talk, but on our way to Queen’s Wood. He thinks their alpha is joining them tonight.**

Strike didn’t respond, but felt some relief. If Cherise seemed to be in danger, Barclay would have mentioned it.

The allegedly adulterous husband was leaving the pub now. Strike stubbed out his cigarette and followed his target.

***

When Robin arrived at home, there was a bouquet of daisies sitting in a vase on the table. The petals were slightly crushed as if they had been jostled on their journey home or had perhaps been the last ones left at the shop. Despite their slightly forlorn appearance, Robin was touched. Or at least, she told herself that she  _ should  _ be touched. Matthew had never brought home flowers before. Though the gesture seemed lazy, generic, and cliché - and surely there were higher quality flowers to choose from - she imagined that maybe he was trying to make amends for his behavior of the past few days.

He had his back to her at the stove, making spaghetti for dinner. He rarely, if ever, cooked.

“That smells good,” she said by way of greeting.

“I thought it would be nice to actually have dinner together. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Matt pulled her into his arms. Though both were somewhat stiff and awkward, each recognized that the other was making an effort. Robin accepted his kiss, but it held none of the passion they had once known. And later, when they made their way to the bedroom, Robin noticed the distinct  _ absence _ of something pressing against her hip as they continued their dispassionate foreplay. Eventually, both claimed to be too tired to make love that night, which both knew was a lie.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin and Ilsa meet for the first time and Ilsa senses a darkness around Robin. Strike reflects on his feelings for Robin, and Robin struggles to rekindle the romance with Matt.

When Strike ambled down the stairs to his office the next morning, it was to find the gorgeous form of his ex-fiancé waiting for him by the door. He sighed when she turned to face him, too late to pretend he wasn’t in. He tried to ignore her as he unlocked the door, but she followed him in anyway. 

“Corm, we need to talk.” Gone was her flirtatious air. This was a Charlotte he knew would go to any lengths to get what she wanted.

Strike sighed again. “I told you I want no part of this.”

“I think we both know it’s too late for that,” Charlotte said as she took a seat opposite him, uninvited. “Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything. I already told you, I won’t be responsible for the deaths of innocents.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that he had already agreed the SIB should probably be aware of the movements of Roy’s pack. But something resembling pride, or perhaps spite, wouldn’t allow him to give Charlotte exactly what she wanted.

Charlotte captured his eyes with hers, and Strike found himself unable to look away. He felt as if he was being x-rayed as her pupils dilated.

“Do you really think they’re innocent? Or do you think there’s something suspicious about their behavior?” she asked.

Strike blinked and quickly looked away, gritting his teeth. “Goddammit, Charlotte! Stay out of my head!”

“If you would tell me what I need to know, I wouldn’t need to do this. Now answer me.”

He struggled against the pull of her command, but it was no use. The words slipped from his lips, against his will. “Their behavior’s suspicious.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Don’t you have your own people for this kind of thing?” he asked irritably.

“Yes, but I don’t have anyone quite as well placed as you are, nor do they have your skills.” She said the last bit almost seductively and Strike had to stop the look of disgust that threatened to break through his features. It would be unwise to irritate her further than he already had.

Charlotte met his steely gaze and her pupils dilated again. “As your maker, I command you to tell me what you know about these Moonlighters.”

Strike pinched his lips together, trying to hold back the flood of words that tried to flow from his lips. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he tried to resist her command. She leaned forward in her chair slightly and said more forcefully, “Tell me!”

Despite his efforts, the thoughts she needed floated to the surface of his mind and swept swiftly out of his mouth. Strike was powerless to hold it back. “There’s six in the pack now, but it’s growing. There are five Transitions, including the recent addition of my client’s boyfriend, and one Natural. The Natural just turned her boyfriend. He won’t be a fully-fledged wolf until the next full moon. Barclay thinks they have an alpha that has given them permission to breed.”

“But Transitions can’t breed, even if their alpha gives them permission,” Charlotte said slowly. 

Strike had pinched his mouth together again and turned his head to the side to avoid looking at the woman he had once loved. But it didn’t matter. The power she held over him as his maker was simply too great to overcome. 

“Look at me, Corm,” Charlotte commanded. Slowly and jerkily, as he tried to resist, Strike’s head turned to look at her once more. “What else do you know?” she asked.

“There’s a ceremony,” he said through gritted teeth. “Next full moon. I don’t know what it’s for, but Barclay thinks it will give the Transitions the ability to breed.”

“Next moon is a blue moon,” Charlotte muttered quietly. “Very powerful. Who is the alpha?”

“I don’t know,” Strike grunted. He strained to hold the words in, and just managed to avoid confessing that he would probably know who the alpha is very soon. He might have to respond to her direct questions, but there was no force requiring him to _volunteer_ information.

“Find out,” she instructed. “Now, Corm, you’re going to invoke a vision of this ceremony.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that. I have to have some connection to the person I’m envisioning. I don’t know any of these Moonlighters.”

“ _Try_ ,” she insisted. “Imagine you’re sending Barclay to the ceremony,” she added sarcastically.

Strike closed his eyes and tried to envision Barclay on the next full moon. He saw the Scot in a dark wooded area, alone. He was talking on the phone to a woman, asking her where she was. Strike didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. Barclay sounded anxious as he reminded the woman that the moon would reach its peak shortly.

The vision ended abruptly, like a rubber band snapping from being pulled too tightly; the effort of trying to withstand Charlotte’s commands and invoke a vision was too much for Strike to endure. His forehead was dappled in sweat and he was starting to feel lightheaded.

“What did you see?” Charlotte asked impatiently.

“Barclay. He was in the woods alone. I don’t think he was at the ceremony.” It was another partial truth, and Strike struggled to hold back the information of the phone call. He was thankful he already looked poorly, so maybe she wouldn’t notice that more words were fighting to break free from his lips.

Charlotte looked lost in thought for a moment. Then she turned back to him and gave him a toothy smile that didn’t touch her eyes. She leaned forward in her chair, holding his gaze captive once more. “You’re going to find out how they think they’re going to give Transitions the ability to breed, and then you’re going to tell me. Kidnap one of them if you have to, I don’t care. I want hard evidence that they’ve broken our laws, and you’re going to do whatever it takes to find it.”

Strike’s breath was forced from his lungs under the power of her order. He slumped in his chair as she finally released him and stood to leave. 

“Goodbye, Bluey. See you soon.” She winked at him and left, not a thought to spare for the weakened state in which she had left her former lover.

***

An hour later, Strike heard voices issuing from the outer office, the fluttering of his bird alerting him to Robin’s presence. It soothed and comforted him after his encounter with Charlotte. He thought he recognized the other voice as belonging to Barclay.

“Mornin’ Boss,” the Scot greeted him as Strike emerged from his office. “A’ve got news for ye.”

Strike moved to lean against the sink. Robin noticed that he was limping rather heavily and he looked pale and clammy. “What’ve you got?” he asked.

Barclay hesitated and indicated Robin with his eyes. “Maybe yer office would be better?”

“Oh sorry, Sam. Robin’s aware of the details of both of our conditions now. In fact, she figured out a lot of it on her own.”

“An’ she came back?” Barclay asked in surprise. He turned to Robin and gave her a wolfish grin. “You’re either brave or mad,” he teased.

“Go on,” Strike urged.

“Accordin’ tae Roy, yer client Cherise has gone tae stay with her parents an’ they’ve split up.”

“That’s good. He didn’t seem like he wanted to chase after her or anything?”

Barclay shook his head. “No, A dinnae think so. He said his alpha promised tae find him a new lass.”

“So they definitely do have an alpha, then?” Strike asked.

“Aye, an’ he was there last night. Name o’ Domhnall.”

Strike’s eyebrows constricted. 

“Aye, it’s a bit old fashioned, I’ll give ye that.”

“It’s certainly not a name I’ve heard for a while,” Strike said. His nonexistent ankle twinged with the memory of the venom that would have killed him. Domhnall had been the name of the alpha that had bitten him.

“He wanted tae know if A was goin’ tae pledge tae their pack. A said A’d think aboot it. Then he said A’d want tae join him because he’s a powerful alpha and gettin’ more powerful every day.”

“He’s getting more powerful?” Strike clarified.

“That’s what he said.”

“What does that mean?” Strike mused.

“Don’t know, but it doesnae sound good. So are we stayin’ with it now that Cherise seems tae be safely oot o’ the way?”

“Fuck me.” Strike rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and explained about his visit from Charlotte earlier that morning. “I don’t have a choice, I’m going to have to do what she wants, but that doesn’t mean that you have to. Either of you.” He glanced at Robin.

“Why don’t you have a choice?” Robin interjected.

Strike had forgotten there was still much she didn’t know about his world. He sighed, wishing he had never brought her into this, even though she had insinuated _herself_ into his world.

“She’s the one that made me what I am. That comes with a special bond, one I can’t break. I have to do what she commands me to do,” he explained.

“What if you don’t?” she asked. “What if you fight it?”

“As long as I resist, it drains my strength. Eventually, it would kill me.”

“Oh.” Robin had more questions, but kept them to herself. This was not the time for a lengthy lesson on all things supernatural.

“This Domhnall makes me a wee bit nervous. He’s a bit o’ a rocket,” Barclay said. “A’m with ye until we get this figured oot, Boss. But A dinnae think the rest o’ the pack are bad.”

Strike nodded, thinking. “How long can you reasonably hang around them without pledging loyalty to the pack?”

“A dinnae know, but A’ll stay as long as A can. A want tae know what he’s up tae. An alpha’s power is born intae them. A want tae know why he thinks he’s gettin’ _more_ powerful. Plus there’s no way A’m leavin’ ye to deal with Captain Crazy on yer own.”

“Good, thanks Sam. Keep me posted.”

“Will do. By the way, ye look like shite,” Barclay teased as he stood from the sofa to take his leave. He gave Robin a grin and a little half-wave, and left.

***

Robin spent the afternoon tailing their new mark. Although she was excited that Strike trusted her enough to do the surveillance on her own, she still missed his company. He was the only person in her life that truly understood her, the only person she felt she could really be herself around. 

Robin remembered the few times they had touched, and how sparks had danced across her skin. She had never felt anything like that before, even when Matthew had proposed. She wondered if that’s where the phrase “sparks flying” came from. Is that what love is supposed to feel like?

 _Love_ . It was getting harder and harder to deny the attraction she felt for Strike, but she chided herself for even thinking the word. He was her boss and her friend. How could anything they’d shared so far compare with the nearly ten years she had spent with Matthew? Although, their relationship could hardly be called _passionate_ of late. 

Remembering the warmth of Strike’s lips on her skin, she traced a finger over the place where she had cut her palm for him. The pleasure of his tongue lapping at her flesh as he drank from her was exquisite - more so than anything she had experienced with Matthew. Robin’s face flushed as she remembered how she had nearly orgasmed as he pulled on her wound. She wondered how much better it would feel if it were combined with sex.

She and Matthew hadn’t had sex in...well, she had lost count. As she continued to follow the supposedly cheating husband of their client, Robin felt none of the guilt she knew she _should_ feel for wondering what Strike might be like in bed.

***

Robin followed her mark all the way back to his home and looked at her watch. Matt had probably already eaten dinner, so she picked up a takeaway on her way home. The small house was quiet and dark when she arrived. Just as she was starting to wonder if Matthew was even home, she heard noises coming from the bedroom.

As Robin moved closer, the noises became more suggestive, like the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings. Her feet stilled and her veins filled with ice as she registered the throaty moans of a woman. Robin quietly pushed open the door and froze at the sight of the naked flesh of her fiancé moving above an equally naked blonde.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a ratings hike.
> 
> Previously...  
> Strike receives an exhausting visit from Charlotte. Barclay meets the alpha of the wolf pack. Robin reflects on her relationship with Matthew and her feelings for Strike. Upon arriving home after surveillance, Robin finds Matthew in bed with Sarah.

Strike hurriedly pulled on a pair of trousers, roused from sleep by the sound of knocking. “Just a minute,” he called, wondering who would be at his door at this hour.

“Cormoran, it’s me,” came Robin’s voice from the hallway at the same moment Strike registered the beating of his bird mark.

Strike hopped one-legged to the door, using the cleverly placed ropes overhead for leverage, and paused to pull a t-shirt over his head.

“Robin?” He asked as he opened the door. Robin caught a glimpse of his hairy abdomen as he straightened his shirt. “Is everything alright?” He took in her red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained face. 

Robin hesitated on the threshold. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Her eyes were on the floor.

“Okay…” Strike said, amused and concerned. He noticed she had a small holdall and his heart skipped a beat, or it would have if he  _ had  _ a heartbeat. “Would you like to come in?”

“Okay.” Robin breezed past him and flopped on his sofa. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Certainly.” His amusement and curiosity were mounting and his little bird fluttered with hope.

Music issued from Robin’s phone, a shrill and slightly annoying tone, indicating a call coming in. She looked automatically at the screen and saw that it was Matthew. Robin huffed in exasperation and rejected the call, then switched her phone off completely.

Strike hobbled to his kitchen to fetch two glasses and a bottle of whisky. Robin appeared behind him and took the items so he could make his way to the sofa. She flopped back down next to him with a huff and held out the glasses. He silently poured them both a generous measure. 

“I’ve left Matthew,” she confessed before draining a large portion of her glass. Strike’s little bird fluttered with hope once more.

“What happened?” Strike heard himself ask, hoping the glee wasn’t too evident in his tone.

“I found out he’s been fucking someone else.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he murmured as hope was suddenly pulled out from under him. He now felt guilty for sitting so close to her, even as his little bird urged him to move even closer. “How’d you find out?”

“I came home and found them in our bed.” Robin took another large swig of her drink.

“ _ Christ _ … I’m sorry, Robin.” Strike’s hand itched to caress her skin, wiping away the tear stains on her lovely cheeks, but he wasn’t certain such a gesture would be welcome given that the corpse of her relationship wasn’t even cold yet.

“It’s actually been over between us for a while, I think. Just neither of us had admitted it yet.” Robin stared morosely into her glass.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Strike said at once. Then, trying not to sound too eager, he added, “Or I can take you to a hotel.”

Robin leaned against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes in a long blink, then turned her head slightly to look at him. “Thank you, Cormoran.”

Her gaze was heated and Strike felt himself leaning towards her involuntarily. Her eyes dropped to his lips and his little bird pounded against his chest with the force of their combined desire. Robin’s hand inched closer to his, her finger brushing against his skin, whisper-soft. She snaked her finger under his hand and into his palm. 

“Robin…” he protested, even as he shifted his position, moving closer to her. 

“What?” she challenged, slipping her whole hand into his and twining their fingers together. 

“You’ve just split up with your fiancé.”

“I just told you it’s been over for a long time.”

Strike gazed down at her uncertainly as multiple desires warred within him.

Robin set down her glass and sat up on her knees, pulling Strike’s glass from his hand as well.

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel whatever this is between us,” she whispered. Running a hand up his arm and under the sleeve of his t-shirt, she continued, “You feel it too, when we touch. Don’t you?”

Strike swallowed, electricity zipping over his skin where her fingers had caressed him. He nodded.

“Aren’t you curious to know what it means? I never believed in any of this supernatural stuff, but with what I know now… This feels significant. Doesn’t it?”

Her fingers now pressed into his chest and his arm wrapped instinctively around her waist. Robin slowly dipped her head down towards his lips, pausing just before their skin touched. Both caught their breath before diving headfirst into the pool of desire. As their lips connected, that delicious electric current zinged over their skin. Strike felt a flush of warmth as a fire ignited deep within him. His bird mark became an even more tangible presence against his chest, pulsing with the force of her rapid heartbeat. He felt the outline burning deeper into his flesh. It was painful, but it was a pleasurable kind of ache. Robin pulled away from him slightly, her eyes wide with surprise, and he wondered if she had felt its burn as well.

Strike reached for her, wrapping a large hand around the base of her neck. Robin’s hands tangled into his hair as he pulled her lips to his once more. The electric zing, combined with the smell and taste of her, threatened to overwhelm him. She straddled his lap as her tongue darted into his mouth. Strike moaned as he felt his fangs elongate. He tried to close his lips over them, worried that it would scare her if she felt them. But Robin ran her tongue lightly and teasingly over one of the sharpened points, eliciting another moan as Strike deepened the kiss. 

Robin tucked her hands under the hem of his shirt and felt his stomach flex. She felt something else flex as well, as his teeth hadn’t been the only things to elongate. She ground into him, relishing the feel of his arousal pressing into her. She pushed the t-shirt up his chest, raking her nails against him. He pulled away from her lips just long enough for her to pull the shirt over his head before capturing her mouth greedily once more. 

Strike was finding it more and more difficult to resist biting into her lip, or her tongue, or any part of her he could reach. His desires were merging into a singular carnal need to claim her as his own. The darkness within him crept to the surface, but he held it back. He needed her, all of her, more than he needed to find his lost humanity. With sheer force of will, he forced his fangs back into his gums. 

“This is wrong,” he murmured, turning his lips away from her, but burying his nose in her hair. 

Robin traced a finger around his bird mark. “When did you get this?” she asked.

“A long time ago,” he breathed. Her finger was leaving a trail of fire behind it, stealing his breath away.

“It feels warm. And it’s pulsing. Is that…” her words died as she realized it was beating in time with her own heart. She whispered, “And it’s a songbird.”

Strike nodded, “A robin.” His voice was rough with emotion.

Robin looked back into his eyes as she pressed her whole palm against the bird. “Then how could this possibly be wrong?” She leaned her head down to his again, and he was powerless to resist the pull of her lips, or the chance to taste her kiss once more.

There was no holding back now. She was right. How could it possibly be wrong when his bird beat only for her, when his bird  _ was _ her?

His hands followed a path from her waist up her sides, his thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts. His fingers gripped her tightly, hitting a ticklish spot just to the side of her breast. Robin moaned against his mouth and his fangs elongated again. She ran her tongue over both points and Strike was unable to hold back a growl from escaping deep in his throat. The sound of how much he wanted her sent a pleasurable shiver down Robin’s spine.

His hands dropped back to her waist, his thumbs tucking under the hem of her sweater, grazing across her smooth skin. Robin mewled under his touch, the electricity from his skin tickling across her abdomen. Strike’s hands followed the same path as before, but under her sweater, skin-on-skin. When he reached that ticklish spot by her left breast, Robin’s head fell back, a wave of pleasure sweeping through her. Encouraged, Strike continued to push her top up and over her head. He had a brief moment to enjoy the view of her delicate skin before she claimed his mouth again.

They explored each other’s bodies, neither in a hurry to move forward, both relishing the heat that swept over their skin from the other’s touch. Their desperate kisses slowed to a languid exploration of tongues.

“Do you want me?” Robin murmured against his mouth.

“Of course I do, can’t you tell?” Strike teased as he ground his erection up into her.

“No, I mean do you want to… you know…  _ drink _ from me? Or do these always come out when you’re turned on?” Robin flicked one of his fangs with her tongue again.

Strike pulled back to look in her eyes. “The two desires tend to cross. But I have blood, I don’t need to take any from you.” He swept her hair back from her neck and placed a tender kiss in the hollow behind her ear.

“But you’re weak. Why don’t you use it if you have it?”

He pulled back to look at her again, his brows knitting together. “Because I don’t like to drain people. I’m a parasite, Robin. Strengthening myself means weakening someone else. My friend Nick usually gives me a pint about once a month. That’s not really enough to keep me healthy, but taking any more than that would leave  _ him _ weak.”

Robin twirled her finger in his chest hair, then traced his bird again. “What if you had more than one person giving you blood? So you could build up your strength and didn’t have to be as weak?”

“Robin, no. I told you, I wouldn’t use you that way.”

“What if I want you to?” she asked in a small voice.

“Robin…”

“Cormoran,” she countered, her voice stronger. “I want to help you. If I’m being honest, I… liked it before. I  _ really  _ liked it. I feel bad knowing that I can help you but not doing anything.” Strike’s eyebrows knit together and Robin cupped his face, rubbing a thumb over his brow to smooth the concern that was etched there. She dropped her mouth down to his for a soft pressing of lips.

“Let me do this for you,” she murmured against his lips. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and rubbed against one of his fangs, which seemed to drive him wild. Predictably, he moaned into her mouth and his grip on her tightened, pulling her closer to him.

Robin pulled back, inclining her head and exposing her neck to him. Strike trailed his lips across her skin, his tongue darting out to trace little figure-eights across her flesh, but he didn’t bite into her. Robin dropped her head to nibble on his earlobe, eliciting a moan. She copied the path his lips had made as she kissed down to his collarbone and back up. Her tongue flicked out to taste his skin, then she lightly bit at the side of his neck. His hips arched up into her and he pressed her closer to him, one arm wrapping around her back to cradle her head, the other hand cupping her arse.

Robin bit a little harder and he hissed in pleasure. “Fuck, Robin…”

He was fighting the urge to bite into her neck, but his resolve was waning. His weakened body craved blood, and the memory of her flavor caused his fangs to ache with the need to claim her as his own. He inhaled the heavenly aroma of her skin, unable to resist the onslaught to his senses. He was losing the battle, and he knew it. He was like the worst kind of addict who had just been presented with his favorite vice. And her hips grinding against him certainly weren’t helping. His teeth grazed lightly over her skin, desperate to find purchase in her elegant flesh.

“Cormoran, please,” she moaned. 

His teeth pressed into her skin a little more firmly, but didn’t pierce her.

“Will it hurt?” she breathed.

“No,” he murmured against her skin. “Are you sure?”

He felt her nod. “Please, Cormoran. I want you, all of you.”

Strike pressed his teeth into her more firmly still, giving her one last chance to change her mind. He hesitated, then bit into her, his fangs piercing her delicate skin. Robin moaned as his teeth penetrated her. When he suckled at the holes in her neck, she let out a mewling sound and ground into his erection, desperate for some friction.

Strike thrust against her as he continued to pull from her neck. Robin dropped her head back to his neck and bit down, hard. He pulled his mouth from her and gasped, “Fuck, that feels good. Don’t stop.”

“Cormoran, why do I want to taste you? I want to bite into you,” Robin panted against him.

“You’re getting an echo of my hunger. You can drink from me if you want, it won’t taste bad.”

Robin moaned, completely lost in her desire, “Mmm, yes can I taste you? I want to taste you.”

“Here.” Strike dug a pocket knife out of his trousers, flicked it open, and made a small cut on his neck.

Robin watched as blood collected at the surface. Her tongue darted out to catch a droplet that threatened to slide down his skin and she moaned. He tasted rich and sweet, like the most delectable dessert she had ever had. He was better than dark chocolate, creme brulee, or port wine. Her lips fastened around the cut and she sucked his essence into her mouth. It danced across her tongue, tantalizing her taste buds. As she swallowed him down, she felt a connection forming between them, an intimacy so much more profound than that achieved through sex. 

Strike’s head fell back and he moaned, his hips thrusting up into her over and over again. When he dropped his head to suckle at her neck once more, the grinding of their hips became increasingly desperate. The feeling of their essences merging inside them, combined with the friction of their groins was almost too much to handle. By the time Robin realized she was near orgasm, she was already tumbling over the edge, her hips rocking erratically, and her head thrown back in pleasure. 

Strike tasted her release, the force of her emotion changing the flavor of her blood. As her desire flowed into him, her pleasure became his own and he grunted his own release, a wet stain forming on his trousers. As he caught his breath, it occurred to him that her blood had set his heart beating again. He had been so lost in their mutual pleasure, he hadn’t noticed it at first. 

Strike bit into his own tongue, then swiped his blood across the wound in her neck, healing it. Robin looked down to see that his own neck had already healed. She giggled, hardly believing what she had just done.

Strike cupped her cheek and brought her eyes up to look into his. “Are you alright?”

Robin nodded, then her face bunched in concern. “Will I become like you now? I probably should have asked that before.”

Strike huffed in exasperation. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I guess we got a little carried away,” she giggled, looking down at the stain on his trousers. “Too bad, I was hoping to sample more of you,” she murmured as she captured his lips for a kiss. She gasped in surprise when she felt him beginning to harden against her once more.

“I recover quickly.” Strike gave her a cheeky grin.

“Apparently,” Robin teased. Her eyes dropped back to his bird mark and she traced a finger over it again, leaving a little trail of sparks in its wake. Her eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

“What is it?” Strike asked as he rubbed a hand soothingly over her back. 

“Do all Night Walkers have one of these?”

“No,” he murmured, dropping his head forward to rest his forehead against hers. “Just me.”

“Why? Why do you have it? And why is it a robin?” she asked quietly.

Strike swallowed heavily. “Do you remember when I told you that I’m different from others like me? That an Indian shaman gave me the gift of being able to eat human food?”

Robin nodded. Strike took her hand and pressed it flush against his bird.

“This was part of that gift, but I don’t know why. It gives me other abilities as well.”

“Is that why you can hear my thoughts?” He nodded. “What are the other abilities, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wa-”

Strike squeezed her hand, interrupting her. “I can conceal myself and you, if I’m close enough. And the visions, which you already knew about.”

“That day on the stairs, when you had a vision. What was it about?”

“You. Us. We were together. But I don’t understand it yet. When I got this,” he pressed her hand into his chest again, “I had a vision of you, too. It was of the day you first came to the office.”

“What does it all mean?” Robin whispered.

“I think it means that I was meant to find you.” Strike leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, leaving out the part about  _ why  _ he was meant to find her. Now, more than ever, he was determined to find a way to keep her safe, to keep his visions from coming to pass.

Robin melted into him as she sank into his lap. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers tangling into his hair. Strike moaned into her mouth as he rubbed his hands over her back, pressing her into him. He needed her closer, closer. He needed every inch of his skin covered by her fiery touch. Robin obliged, her hands wandering over his chest, neck, arms, abdomen, hair, everywhere she could reach.

Strike dropped his mouth to her neck to taste the skin there. His tongue and lips worked in tandem, tantalizing her, tickling her, driving her wild with need. He worked his mouth to the back of her neck, just under her hairline, and gently bit, but not with his fangs. A shiver of pleasure and anticipation ran the length of her spine. 

“Cormoran,” Robin moaned, “I need you.” 

Her hands found his waistband and fumbled clumsily with the button. She was thoroughly distracted, as his lips were now making their way across her clavicle. He pushed the strap of her bra down her arm, giving him unimpeded access to the rest of her shoulder. She finally succeeded in unbuttoning his trousers and thrust her hand inside, grazing across his skin; he wasn’t wearing any boxers. He groaned as she wrapped a hand around his length. Her knuckles brushed against the wet spot where he had already lost control and Robin had a sudden need to see him.

Strike heard her desperate need pushed forward from her thoughts, and he felt it in her breathy pants against his neck. He reached behind her and unfastened her bra with one hand. Robin yanked it from her arms and tossed it aside, revealing her creamy skin. Strike’s hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs flicking over her pale pink nipples. Robin canted her hips against him, throwing her head back as his lips and thumbs continued their delicious torture.

Strike wrapped his arms around her, one hand cupping her arse, and shifted their position. He held her close and supported her as he lay her back against the sofa to hover over her. The new position gave Robin better access to his groin, as he was able to lift his hips away from her. She eagerly tugged his trousers down over his arse, allowing his cock to spring free. 

Robin took his thick length into her hand and lightly squeezed. Her hand was warm and smooth, and Strike couldn’t resist fucking into her grip. His hips thrust forward eagerly, seeking that delicious friction her skin provided. Robin’s other hand wound into his hair, pulling his face to hers so she could claim his mouth with a kiss. She parted his lips hungrily and licked into his mouth. Robin pumped her tongue in and out of his mouth in an imitation of his cock pumping in and out of her hand. 

Strike moaned into her and captured her tongue, sucking it into his mouth as he continued to grind into her hand. Robin flicked her fingers across his tip, spreading the moisture that had collected there, allowing him to glide smoothly across her skin. 

“Fuck, Robin, you feel so good,” he panted against her mouth. “I want to taste you. Let me taste you?”

Robin answered by turning her head to the side, giving him access to her neck. His lips grazed along her skin and up to her ear. His tongue traced along the tip of her cartilage before he lightly nipped the lobe. 

“That’s not where I meant,” he whispered. 

Strike pulled back and waited until she turned to look at him. His eyes were clouded with desire, setting a fire deep within Robin’s belly. Her hand stilled on his length as he continued to drink in the sight of her flushed face. Some deeper emotion shone from behind his eyes, and Robin’s heart fluttered, recognizing her own feelings reflected in his gaze.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, and he nuzzled back into her neck. He kissed his way down to her chest, his hand sliding up her side to her breast. He peeked up at her through his lashes as he kissed his way over to her breast, seeking her approval. Robin’s breath came in heavy pants, and she licked her lips. Strike could feel her heart accelerating as he continued his path towards her nipple. He captured the rose-pink bud in his mouth and flicked it with his tongue. Robin’s eyes fluttered closed and she arched up into his hot mouth. 

“Can I taste you?” he murmured against her skin.

Robin nodded frantically, unable to speak. She fumbled with the button on her jeans and yanked them down. Strike’s hands moved over her skin and replaced hers at her waistband. He eased her jeans and knickers down over her knees and ankles, revealing a small thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Her folds were glistening with her arousal and Strike groaned low in his throat.

He settled onto his knees and dropped his head to her legs, kissing up the inside of her thigh. He stopped just shy of her core and blew cool air over her silken lips, causing Robin to shiver in anticipation. Strike inhaled her scent, reveling in her desire.

“You smell incredible,” he breathed. His tongue flicked out to tease at her clit and he moaned. “And you taste even better.” 

His tongue licked up one side of her outer lips, then the other, before fastening his mouth over her sensitive bud. His tongue lapped against her pink flesh, delivering a pleasure unlike anything she had ever experienced. The electric connection of their skin added an extra dimension to his ministrations. Robin’s fingers knotted in his dense curls, her nails scraping against his scalp. She wrapped her legs around his shoulders and cooed, “More, I need more.”

Strike obliged, inserting a finger into her heat. He searched within her for that sweet bundle of nerves that would drive her wild. Robin gasped when he found it and bucked up into his face. Strike rubbed that delicate piece of flesh as he pumped his finger in and out of her, his tongue working in tandem at her clit. 

“Cormoran,” she mewled, “I need you. I need all of you.”

Strike thought she might be getting close, and he wasn’t ready to give up until she completely shattered against him. He eased another finger inside her, eliciting a high pitched moan. Robin arched up into him, seeking  _ more _ . With his other hand, Strike inched a finger closer to her arse. Her juices were dripping down her crack, allowing his finger to glide smoothly over her skin. He grazed the tight opening of her arse and Robin threw her head back on a long moan. Encouraged, Strike rubbed her a little more firmly. 

Robin panted his name over and over, intermingled with incoherent curses. Her back entrance was opening to him, and he pushed the tip of his finger inside. Robin cried out at the new sensation, as lights exploded behind her eyes. Strike felt her walls clench around him and he pressed his tongue firmly into her clit, his fingers expertly working both of her holes. Her hands clenched into fists in his hair. It pulled painfully, but Strike stayed with her, carrying her through her orgasm.

Her grip on his hair loosened and her body relaxed, sinking bonelessly into the cushions of the sofa. Strike wiped his mouth against the inside of her thigh and cleaned his fingers on his trousers. He lifted himself back over her, kissing his way up her abdomen, chest, and neck. When he reached her lips, Robin turned her head away and giggled. “Uh-uh, nope.”

Strike chuckled, “But it’s  _ you _ .”

“Doesn’t mean I want to taste it,” Robin teased.

Strike nuzzled into her neck, scraping his stubble along her skin. “So you’ll drink my blood, but you won’t taste your own juices,” he chuckled.

Robin giggled, “That’s different, I hadn’t come yet.”

“Well, I hope you’re not done yet, because I’m just getting started,” Strike growled into her ear and ground his erection against her.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin goes to Strike's flat after finding Matthew in bed with Sarah and Bitey Smut™ ensues.

Strike hovered her and ground his erection against her as Robin wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to draw him into her core. 

“Should we move to the bed?” he breathed and Robin nodded, though neither of them moved. 

Strike thrust against her silken folds and groaned. Robin hitched her legs higher on his waist, opening herself for him. Strike would have happily thrust into her heat, had he not looked up to see the awkward angle at which her head was pushed against the arm of the sofa. 

He pulled away from her and sat back on his knees. “Bed.” He pulled her hand, helping her into a sitting position. 

Robin stood up in front of him, her glistening mound perfectly at eye level. She brazenly pushed her hips towards his face, and Strike couldn’t resist burying his mouth in her curls. He grasped her arse tightly and drove his tongue into her slit. Robin perched one foot on the arm of the sofa, giving him better access to her heat. He cupped his hands under her arse and drew her to him, devouring her sweet flavor.

“Cormoran, I need you,” she moaned as her hands knotted in his hair.

She dropped her leg back to the floor, grasped his hand, and started pulling him backwards to the bedroom. Strike got unsteadily to his one foot, and Robin dropped his hand uncertainly. She hadn’t thought about how difficult it was for him to maneuver without his prosthesis on. Strike kicked off his trousers and reached up to grasp the assist ropes overhead. Robin was looking at him with a heated expression, her gaze roving appreciatively over his taut abdomen and down to his cock, which jutted out proudly. 

Under his clothes, his bulk looked...well,  _ bulky _ . But now Robin could see that what she had assumed was flab was actually hefty muscle. He wasn’t sculpted like a model or a bodybuilder, but he was just so  _ solid _ . Robin’s heart accelerated as she drank in his pure masculinity. Her gaze was drawn to his cock. It had a slightly upward curve and was definitely larger than Matthew. It twitched under her gaze and Robin licked her lips. Drawing her eyes back up to Strike’s, she saw that he was watching her ogle him with a cheeky smirk. He flexed his cock at her again and she grinned, walking backwards to the bedroom and beckoning to him with a cheeky finger. Strike followed her, his erection bobbing with every hop.

Robin climbed onto the bed and sat back on her knees, watching as Strike approached, his eyes dark and his gaze heated. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and flexed as he used the ropes overhead to steady himself. She waited impatiently as he made his way to her, his heavy cock swinging enticingly.

Robin’s thoughts were drifting through the air loud and clear, and Strike wondered if she realized she was silently speaking to him. He heard her appreciation for his rugged manliness, her desire to be pinned to the mattress by his hairy bulk, and he had to bite back the growl that threatened to burst from his throat. As she watched him approach, he heard her wishing he would pounce on her and devour her. Strike leaned down to kiss tenderly along her clavicle, running his hands down her sides and to her thighs. With a swift move that caught her off guard, Strike pulled her legs out from under her, flipping her onto her back. A quick hand cradled her head as she landed on the mattress, and suddenly Strike was hovering over her, kissing her senseless. She could taste herself on his lips, but she found that she didn’t care.

He hitched her legs up over his hips as he ground into her. He rocked his hips, rubbing his cock along her clit. Robin moaned, clutching at his shoulders. Strike felt her stiffen marginally, her thoughts suddenly anxious.

“Don’t worry, my angel, I can’t get you pregnant. And I can’t carry any human diseases. But I’ll wear a condom, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Robin smiled and shook her head. “Are you listening to me?”

“Can’t help it, I think you want me to hear you,” he said cheekily.

“ _ Is that so? _ ” she thought, cocking one eyebrow at him.

He nuzzled into her neck, lightly nibbling on her ear. He murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

“ _ I want your cock, _ ” she thought.

He rocked against her clit again. “Where do you want my cock?”

“Inside me,” she breathed. 

Strike reached between them to position himself at her entrance and slowly thrust into her.

He paused after hearing Robin think, “ _ So big _ ,” as he filled her. But then she moaned his name, “Cormoran, don’t stop.”

He thrust into her again, harder, and she gasped in appreciation. “ _ More _ ,” she thought, and she rocked against him, trying to get him to move faster. Strike obliged, finetuning his rhythm to perfectly suit her needs. He listened to her thoughts and altered his movements to meet her every wish. When she wanted more friction against her clit, he ground his pelvis into her. When she wanted him deeper, he changed the angle of his thrusts. 

“Cormoran,” she panted, “you feel incredible.” Her thoughts had said, “ _ Make me come. _ ”

Strike swirled his hips in a circle, twirling his cock inside her. Robin's head fell back on a long moan, so he did it again. 

“ _ I want to come. G-spot, _ ” she thought. 

Strike thrust up into her, the upward curve of his shaft hooking perfectly into her most pleasurable spot and she cried out in ecstasy. “Rub your clit,” he whispered and Robin complied, slipping a hand in between them.

Her eyes clenched tight as she focused on the pleasure, but her mind shouted, “ _ Yes, yes, that’s it! _ ” Strike continued to pound into her, driving her closer and closer to oblivion. When she was balancing on the precipice, he heard her wish he would bite into her again. He playfully nibbled on her neck, then bit a little harder, though without fangs.

“ _ Yes, bite into me, _ ” she thought.

Strike moaned, his fangs extending, and gently bit into the base of her neck. Robin cried out in pleasure as little flashes of light burst behind her eyes. A tidal wave of bliss overtook her, carrying her away from the shore and setting her adrift on a sea of passion. Strike heard her silent desire to gaze upon him and pulled back to look in her eyes. He felt himself being pulled into their stormy blue depths, and suddenly he was drowning in her. She filled him, body and soul, just as surely as he was filling her. 

It may have been a trick of the light, but he thought he saw flecks of gold shining in the liquid blue of her irises. The tiny flecks shimmered and glowed, and her mouth fell open in a long moan as she shattered beneath him. Her walls fluttered and clenched as she came, and suddenly Strike was spilling into her, overwhelming him with the intensity of his orgasm. As his cock pulsed within her walls, he felt a warmth spreading from his fluttering bird mark, seeping into his bones. The warmth wrapped around his heart in a tender embrace and he could feel her heart beating in time with his own. His chest felt full, too full, as if he now carried her heart as well as his own. Robin gasped and looked at his chest, where the wingtips of his bird were filling with a royal blue.

Robin pressed her palm against the mark and a new wave of pleasure swept over them both, as delicious electricity spread across their skin. Strike claimed her mouth, stealing her breath away as his thrusts slowed and stilled. He kissed her cheek, jaw, then neck as he rolled off of her and onto his back. Robin nestled into the crook of his shoulder, clinging to him tightly.

Strike smiled as Robin kissed across his chest, over to his bird mark. Her finger grazed across the now blue wingtips. 

“Why did that happen?” she asked.

Strike’s eyes were closed, one arm thrown over his forehead as he tried to catch his breath.

“Why did what happen?” he said absently.

“It looks like the wings are turning blue.”

Strike looked down at his bird and saw that she was right, the edges of the wings were colored in a beautiful blue. He instinctively knew why; it was the same feeling he had experienced when he had first received his bird, when he had had his first vision of Robin. The addition to his bird stemmed from an emotion that he chose not to name, because if he was honest with himself, naming it terrified him. It terrified him because of what he was, and the future that faced him. Was he truly destined to kill this beautiful creature beside him? And if he found a way to avoid that fate - and he vowed that he would - how could he live for eternity without her? No, he told himself he could not acknowledge this emotion, even as his heart swelled at her touch.

“Has that ever happened before?” she asked.

He swallowed heavily, trying in vain to keep his own heart in the dark. “No, it hasn’t.”

“Why?” she breathed. “What does it mean?”

“I think it’s from you,” he murmured, and swept the hair back from her face so he could look in her eyes. 

Robin covered the bird with her hand, feeling its warmth and its pulse, and she didn’t need him to explain further. They had shared so much more than sex tonight. They had forged a deep and meaningful bond, and now the strength of their emotion was branded on his chest.

Robin smiled down at him, and placed a soft kiss on the middle of his bird, directly over his heart. Strike cupped her cheek and pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. A strong whiff of her scent reminded him that he needed to heal the fresh bite marks on her neck. He poked his finger against one of his fangs and swiped a droplet of blood across each of the small holes.

“Thank you,” she murmured against his chest. They held each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity before Robin whispered softly, shyly, “Cormoran? Do you mind if I stay here for a few days?”

“Stay forever,” he breathed, and buried his nose in her hair.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> More smut. Robin discovers that Strike's bird mark has started to change colors.

Though both were tired, neither Robin nor Cormoran wanted to sleep. They clung tightly to each other, tracing lazy fingers across skin, reveling in each other’s touch. Robin was tucked into his shoulder, one leg draped across his, while his hand smoothed up and down her side and over her hip.

“So how does someone become… like you? In all of the movies and TV shows, you have to either be bitten by a vampire or drink their blood. Or do I have to drink yours more than once or something?”

“No, nothing like that. It won’t happen to you, so it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“But what if it happens accidentally?”

“It can’t. I would have to turn you on purpose, and I would never do that to you.”

“So how does it work, then? How can you be so sure it won’t happen by accident?”

Strike sighed. This really wasn’t something he had planned on sharing with her, because it wasn’t exactly pillow talk. But it seemed she needed some reassurance, and he figured he owed her that much, given what they had just shared. 

“After you drink my blood, I would have to stab you in the heart with a silver dagger. Like I said, that’s not going to happen.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. That was definitely a more  _ violent  _ answer than she was anticipating. 

“So that’s what happened to you?”

“Yeah.” He paused for so long, Robin wasn’t sure he was going to continue. Just as she was about to change the subject, he explained, “Charlotte, who you’ve met, was my maker. We were engaged before she told me what she was. She suggested something more permanent than marriage, and like a total prat, I agreed. That was actually the first and only time she ever gave her blood to me.”

“Oh. So you didn’t...when you would...you know?” 

“No, we never did  _ that _ . She was very good at hiding her true nature. She never shared more of herself with me than she needed to, and even then it was usually to suit her own needs. After I was Awoken, we would get blood from other people, but never each other. It wasn’t until much later that I realized just how ruthless she truly was, or just how fucked up our relationship was.” He chose to leave out the part about how sex for he and Charlotte seemed to always occur next to the body of some poor innocent they had just drained. He was relieved when Robin latched on to a different part of his story.

“So have you ever let anyone drink from you before?”

He grinned and pulled her in closer to his side and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Nope, just you. Blood sharing is...special. It’s not something you’d do with just anyone.”

Robin smiled against his chest as his words sunk in, that she wasn’t  _ just anyone _ to him. She squeezed her arm tighter around his bulk, silently agreeing with his sentiment. They were quiet for a moment, until Robin’s curiosity got the better of her.

“So how do Night Walkers die? Or can you die?”

Strike chuckled at her unexpected question. “Should I be concerned?” he teased.

“No,” Robin giggled, “just wondering. A wooden stake?” she guessed.

“Another myth. You’d be surprised how difficult it actually is to stab someone in the heart with a wooden stake.”

“Oh?”

Strike sighed again at the unexpectedly violent turn their pillowtalk was taking. “That’s another one that we started. For one thing, wooden stakes aren’t actually that sharp. The average human wouldn’t have enough strength to stab anyone with one, let alone to actually reach the heart with one. For another thing, there’s a lot of bone in the way of your heart.” He trailed his fingers down Robin’s chest, between her breasts. “There’s the sternum here, which blocks most of your heart. Your heart is actually more central than most people realize. And then there’s also your ribs. A flat blade can fit in between, but again, most people wouldn’t have that kind of precision.

“Most of the Van Helsing wannabees throughout the ages were the ones that ended up with a wooden stake in their chests. Which is one of the reasons that myth has persisted. You see, a human might not have enough strength to reach the heart, but a Night Walker does.”

“Oh, God,” Robin said in disgust.

Strike grunted in agreement.

“So what  _ can  _ kill you?” Robin persisted.

Strike squeezed her hip playfully. “I really am getting concerned here,” he chuckled.

“No, I just - “

“It’s fine, I’m only joking.”

Robin propped herself up on an elbow so she could look in his eyes.

“You’re sure you want to hear this?”

She nodded and gestured that he should continue.

“There’s really not much that can kill us. Venom from a Moonlighter, starvation, and disobeying your maker, which you already knew about. Oh, and beheading. Unless you can turn into a wolf, that’s your best bet to defend yourself. Anything that would mortally wound a human might buy you enough time to escape, but that might not work well if you’re up against one that feeds regularly because they’ll heal too quickly. But there’s no reason you should ever find yourself in that kind of situation.”

“Does a bite from you also kill a Moonlighter?”

“No, but you know the myth about silver bullets killing werewolves?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, that’s another almost-truth. To kill a Moonlighter, you have to stab them in the heart with a silver dagger coated in Night Walker blood.”

Robin looked horrified. “I thought you said it was difficult to stab someone in the heart?”

“It is.” He didn’t elaborate, and Robin didn’t inquire further, but rather steered the conversation to slightly less gruesome topics.

“How does the starvation work? Like if you don’t have any blood?”

Strike nodded. “Blood is what keeps us alive, it’s what animates us, since we’re technically dead. The more we take, the more alive it makes us. That’s why most others enjoy killing people. When we completely consume another’s life, it’s the closest thing we have to truly living again. It’s an incredible feeling, when your heart starts beating after being silent for so long.”

Robin’s eyebrows constricted as she placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. “But your heart is beating now,” she said in confusion.

“Because of you.” Strike’s hand covered hers on his chest and he squeezed her fingers. “I don’t know why, but there’s something special about you.” He gazed at her fondly, wondering how she could make him feel so alive.

“Is that why you seem ill a lot? Because you haven’t had any blood?”

“I start to deteriorate rather quickly.”

“That must be awful, constantly feeling ill.”

“It becomes normal after a while.”

They fell into silence again, and Robin placed her head against his chest, over his heart. She listened to the steady beat that her blood had given him, and felt the gentle pulse of his bird against her cheek. It felt warm against her skin and she smiled. 

“OK, I have one more question.”

“Just the one?” Strike teased.

“For now. Do you have really good senses? Like superhuman senses?”

“It’s exaggerated a bit in pop culture, but yeah. It’s sort of like how dogs have better hearing and smell than humans. I’m also stronger and faster than the average human, but I can’t rip a tree out of the ground with my bare hands or anything.”

“What about blood? Can you tell when women are on their periods? That always bothered me about Twilight, like wouldn’t all the Cullens want to eat Bella every time she came around when she was on her period?”

Strike chuckled. “I can smell it, yeah. But I can assure you, it’s not appetizing.”

“Why not? I would think that smelling blood would make you hungry or something.”

“Think of it this way. Do you like steak?” Robin nodded. “Do you get hungry when you look at a cow?”

“No,” she giggled.

“Same food, but in a different presentation. Like I said, not at all appetizing.”

Robin gasped and blushed scarlet suddenly. “So last week, when I was… You knew?”

“Yeah,” Strike chuckled. “But honestly, I don’t really even pay attention to that kind of thing anymore.” He could feel the heat from her flaming cheeks against his skin. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured, trying to hold back the laughter from his voice.

“You just said you were thinking of me like a cow!”

“I found  _ you  _ attractive, just not that particular odor.”

“You found me attractive?” Robin asked coyly, propping up on her elbow to look at him.

“Mmm, very.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously and squeezed his arm around her, tracing his thumb over the sensitive spot on her side, causing her to giggle and squirm. 

“That tickles,” she admonished.

“Then why did you get a tattoo there? That must have hurt if it’s so sensitive.”

Robin grinned uncertainly, not getting the joke. “I don’t have a tattoo,” she said slowly.

“Then what’s this?” he responded cheekily, rubbing his thumb back over the design – a horseshoe, painted in a rainbow watercolor-splash design.

“What’s what?” she asked, her eyes wide. 

“This! This horseshoe.”

“What are you talking about?” She looked down at her side and suddenly scrambled out of bed and ran to the mirror. “What the fuck?!” she exclaimed, examining her side in the mirror. She turned to him, confused and horror-struck, “Where did this come from? Did you do this to me?” 

“No! I wouldn’t do something like that to you, especially not without your consent.” 

Strike hopped over to her, using his side table for support. Robin was turning slightly back and forth, looking at the mark on her side. It seemed to almost shimmer as the light from the street lamps streaming through the window washed over it, as if the rainbow of colors was infused with glitter. Strike’s brows knit in confusion and hurt. 

“Did you really think I would mark you like that without asking you?”

“Well, no… But I don’t know how any of this stuff works.” She gestured ambiguously towards him and the bedroom behind him. “So this isn’t normal, after...? This didn’t come from you?”

Strike was behind her now, gently caressing the mark with his fingertips. “I’ve never seen anything like this happen before. And it’s not a tattoo?”

Robin shook her head, looking at his face in the mirror now. His thumb continued to trace over the mark, tickling her. His brow was still furrowed in confusion. 

_ Is it a coincidence that this strange mark would appear in the exact place she’s ticklish? _ _ And how did she not know it was there? When exactly did it appear? Was it there before we…? _

Strike couldn’t shake the feeling that he should recognize some significance in the mark. He recalled how she had melted under his touch when he had grazed it before, on the sofa. If she was telling the truth, that it had never been there before - and he had no reason to doubt her - then he had to conclude that there was some magic at work here. Strike filed it away with all of the other inexplicable, quasi-mystical characteristics of this incredible angel. 

A completely implausible explanation swum to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to dismiss the thought as utterly ridiculous, but it pounded incessantly against this skull. Nothing about Robin was conventional. How many times had she surprised and confused him already? How many absurd ideas had he given Ilsa to investigate? Why not add another to the list? Perhaps he didn’t understand the supernatural world as well as he thought that he did. 

He took in the red-gold color of her hair, then looked back at the rainbow-colored horseshoe. “Robin,” he said slowly, “your family isn’t from Ireland, are they?”

She looked even more confused and concerned as she answered. “No… why?”

“No reason,” he murmured. “Let’s go back to bed.”

***

Strike wasn’t sure what had woken him, but he was immediately aware of the change in Robin’s heart rate and breathing, mainly that she  _ wasn’t  _ breathing. Her eyes were wide in horror and her body was completely rigid.

The next thing he became aware of was another presence in the room. He could almost make out an outline of something or  _ someone  _ that appeared to be sitting on top of Robin. It shimmered on the edges, like a mirage dancing over hot desert sand. The predator within him reacted faster than the rest of his brain, his fangs shooting out and a feral snarl ripping from his throat. The mirage shimmered and moved as if taking notice of him, but it didn’t disappear. It appeared to lean closer over Robin and her chest heaved as she tried to suck in a gasp of seemingly nonexistent air. 

Strike lunged at the specter and met only air. He covered Robin’s body with his own, trying to shield her. The moment his skin touched hers, she sucked in a loud, pained breath as her lungs abruptly filled with air. Strike looked at her in concern, then turned to face the specter, but it was gone. It was as if the thing had evaporated, no leaving no trace behind, save for the frightened and panting woman beneath him.

“Are you alright?” Strike pushed himself off of her and cupped her face in his hands. His voice was rough and urgent. He forced his fangs back into his gums, but he could tell his eyes were still red. There was no helping it while the predator still surged through his veins. 

Robin nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She watched as Strike’s eyes softened, even as their red tint seemed to ignite with renewed fire. His thumbs gently swiped across her cheeks, and he pulled her to him, cradling her to his chest.

“What in fuck’s name was that?” he panted against her, his lips pressing lightly to her hair.

“Sleep paralysis, I already told you that. It usually lasts longer, though.”

“But what was that  _ thing _ ?”

“What thing?”

“There was something here. It’s like it was - “ he looked down at Robin, at her sweet, innocent face streaked with tears, and he found he couldn’t finish. “Nothing, never mind. You’re alright now.”

He pulled Robin closer against him and silently wondered if Ilsa would hex him if he were to call her at this hour. He glanced at his bedside clock. It was just after three in the morning. He inwardly chuckled at the dark irony - the witching hour.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike and Robin talk about life as a Night Walker. Robin discovers a new mark. Strike witnesses a sleep paralysis incident.

Robin woke the next morning to find the bed next to her cold and empty. There was the faint smell of fresh soap on the air, which was mostly overpowered by the heavenly aroma of coffee coming from the small kitchenette. Robin got slowly out of bed, pulling on Strike’s t-shirt and boxers. She padded softly into the kitchenette, and found a nice steaming mug of coffee and a note in tiny, cramped writing.

> _Good morning! I took the early surveillance shift on Becks so you could sleep late. I should be back by 10._
> 
> _\- Strike x_

Robin read the note several times, paying particular attention to the kiss after his name. She chided herself for being so ridiculous, especially after what they had shared last night, but the sight of the little kiss set a hoard of butterflies aflight in her stomach. She smiled sappily, and brought the note briefly to her lips. 

Robin carried the note and her coffee back to the bed, where she sat in the spot Strike had slept last night. Running a hand over his sheets, which were surprisingly soft, Robin looked around at his tiny flat. It was very tidy, his few possessions stored and arranged neatly in the small space. She wondered if it was his natural personality to be minimalist or if it was a product of living as long as he had. Perhaps material possessions became less important the longer you had lived.

Robin sipped her coffee, wondering if she should get dressed and go down to the office. She read the note for the umpteenth time and decided it didn’t sound like he expected her to be in the office. She wondered how this new dynamic was going to work between them. He was still her boss, but the connection they shared was…indescribable. It was more than a fling, more than a budding relationship. They had shared more than just their bodies last night. The connection they had forged was stronger and deeper than anything she had ever experienced. Strike felt more like family to her now than Matthew ever had. Whatever this was between them wasn’t just sex; it was a level of intimacy she had never known. Even now, in his absence, Robin could feel him deep in her bones. Whatever awkwardness they might have in their working relationship couldn’t possibly stand up to the emotional - almost spiritual - bond they now shared.

She snuggled against his pillow and breathed in his scent. Feeling foolishly girlish, she clutched the note to her chest, pressed her face into his pillow, and fell asleep.

***

Strike sat in a corner of the café, watching Becks, their new client’s husband. The detective smiled into his mug of coffee as he recalled the choosing of the nickname. It had been Robin’s idea, because the man was what she called a “David Beckham wannabe.” Strike had laughed and asked what exactly that meant. 

“Oh you know, the hair, the three-piece suit, the tattoos, the scruffy beard…” she had explained.

“I have a scruffy beard, does that make me a wannabe?”

Robin seemed to respond without thinking, “Yours is scruffy because you’re hairy, not because you carefully craft it to be like that.” Then she blushed a brilliant scarlet and Strike had had to bite back his laugh. 

Of course, this had been before they had slept together, before they had shared things he had never shared with anyone. Remembering the way her lust-clouded eyes had raked over his form last night had Strike fighting back his arousal. It was one thing to hide an erection in public, quite another to hide fangs or red eyes. He focused his attention back on his mark and buried his nose in his mug of coffee, trying to mask Robin’s scent that seemed to linger on his skin.

***

As Strike made his way back to his flat and the woman he hoped was still in his bed, he thought of how he had woken last night to find Robin in the middle of a “sleep paralysis” episode. But he had definitely witnessed something else there. Was this the dark presence around Robin that Ilsa had sensed? 

He was forcibly reminded of the old superstitions from when he was a child. The Night-mare, it was called; the demon that would sit on your chest while you were sleeping and give you bad dreams. But demons weren’t real. Modern science had better explanations for bad dreams and sleep disorders. A voice in the back of his mind countered, _Vampires and werewolves and witches aren’t real either._

Was it possible? Could Robin’s sleep paralysis actually be caused by a Night-mare demon? He tried to remember the prayer his mother had taught him to recite before bed. “I lay me here to sleep; no night-mare shall plague me, until they...something...waters?”

“This is bollocks,” he mumbled to himself. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering asking Ilsa to make a spelled sachet like his mother had sewn into his mattress. He scrunched his face up, bracing himself against the ribbing he would surely take, and dialed her number.

“Hi, Corm! Are you coming round for curry Friday?”

“No, yeah. Maybe, I dunno, listen I needed to ask you something. Do you know any spells to ward off nightmares?”

Ilsa was silent, and Strike grimaced, waiting for her response. “Aww, did someone have a bad dweam?” she said in a singsong baby voice. He could tell that she was trying not to laugh.

“It’s not for me, it’s for Robin. Remember I told you she has sleep paralysis? Well, I witnessed it last night.”

“Oh?” There was definitely laughter in her voice now.

Strike groaned in exasperation. “Come off it, can you help me out or not?”

“Sorry Corm, I don’t know a spell like that.”

“There’s something my mother had made for me when I was a kid that was supposed to ward off nightmares. I think it was salt or something.”

“Did it work?”

“No, not really. I still had bad dreams.”

Ilsa snorted. “Then why do you want one?”

“Because I...I think it might have been for a different kind of nightmare.”

“I’m not following.”

“Have you ever heard of demons?”

“What?” Ilsa asked irritably, thrown by the non sequitur. “Like angels and demons?”

“Kind of, not quite. It’s an old superstition; it mostly died out near the end of the 18th century. There was supposedly a demon that was called the Night-mare, that would come and sit on your chest while you were sleeping and give you bad dreams. It was a popular subject in art, actually. I remember there was a painter that really made waves-”

Ilsa cut off his ramblings. “You’re telling me you think there’s a _demon_ that’s hounding your Robin?” she said with more than a hint of derision.

“I saw it, Ils.”

“You saw a demon,” she said flatly.

“Well no, not really. But I saw _something_. There was something there, but it was invisible.”

“So you saw something that was invisible,” Ilsa said, still in that flat, unbelieving tone.

“Fuck’s sake! I need your help here, Ils! Can you not do a little witchy research, see if you can find anything?”

Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Corm. Of course, I’ll do what I can to help you. I’ll call my contact on the council and see if I can borrow some old texts.”

“Thank you!” Strike noted that he sounded more frustrated than grateful, so he added, “Really, Ilsa, I appreciate you doing this. You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I expect details about how you came to witness this sleep paralysis demon, though!”

Strike chuckled. “Goodbye, Ils.”

“Bye, Corm.”

“Oh, wait!” he called before she could end the call. “You distracted me, but there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Robin has a mark on her side. It wasn’t there before we...it just appeared.”

“What kind of mark?” Ilsa asked slowly.

“It looks like a tattoo, but she said she doesn’t have a tattoo. I didn’t notice it before, and she had never seen it either.”

“I think I’m going to need more details.”

Strike groaned. “Fine. She came over last night, things happened, and then afterwards I noticed this mark on her side. It’s shaped like a horseshoe, and it’s rainbow-colored and sparkly.”

“And you think you somehow did it?” Ilsa surmised.

“Well, I don’t know, that’s the thing. It’s never happened to me before.”

“Was there something different about this time?”

“Actually, yes. I, er, gave her some of my blood.”

“Ew, like to drink?” Ilsa asked incredulously.

Strike huffed in irritation. “It’s not gross! I’ll have you know, it’s extremely...intimate.”

“Ugh, whatever you say. So you’ve never done that with someone before?”

“No, never. You don’t think that’s what caused it? I mean, why would it be a horseshoe? I have nothing to do with horses.”

“I don’t know, Corm. I think you’d probably know more about that kind of thing than I would.”

Strike was quiet for a moment, then continued hesitantly. “You don’t think, maybe… Look, we know she has some kind of magic, yeah? Something that neither of us have ever encountered. She has reddish hair, and then this mark, that’s a _glittery rainbow_ , appears out of nowhere!”

“Okay...?”

“I know this is mad, but do you think she could be a - a leprechaun?”

There was a beat of silence before Ilsa burst out in a deep belly laugh. “You can’t be serious?” she cried.

“Why not? It all fits, doesn’t it?”

He was barely able to understand her reply through her continued cackles. “Have you...tried...asking her for wi-wi-wishes?” She laughed riotously at her own joke.

“I’m serious, Ils!”

Her voice still held a hint of laughter as she tried to get herself under control. “Corm, the leprechauns died out ages ago. In fact, wasn’t it your lot that killed them off?”

“Hey, I wasn’t even around then, so you can just keep that judgmental tone to yourself. What if they didn’t though? What if they just got better at hiding? Plus, didn’t they have identifying marks, and that’s how you knew you had caught one?”

“Hmm, that’s true… But no, that can’t be it. Their marks were clovers, weren’t they?”

“Oh. Yeah, I s'pose you're right.”

“Besides, you’d think a supernatural creature wouldn’t be able to stay hidden for a thousand years without anyone eventually finding out about it.”

“Unless they’re just really good at hiding.” Even though he knew Ilsa was probably right, Strike wasn’t quite ready to give up on his theory yet. “Witches and vampires supposedly don’t exist either.”

“Not to humans, with their incredibly dull senses. But to other supernaturals? You’d think someone would have noticed.”

“I’ll tell Nick you called him dull,” Strike teased.

Ilsa responded coyly, “He likes my supercharged senses.”

“Ugh, say no more.”

“See you Friday.”

“Bye, Ils.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike talks to Ilsa about his theories.

When Strike arrived back at Denmark Street, it was to find Robin lying on her stomach, fast asleep with one freckled shoulder peeking out of his overly large t-shirt she had stolen. He sat softly on the edge of the bed and gently rubbed a hand over the small of her back. Robin turned her head and smiled up at him dreamily as he leaned down to place a tender kiss on her lips. 

“Did you get anything?” Robin asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Nope, still nothing. We can take the afternoon shift together, and then I’d like to take you to dinner, if that’s alright.”

“That’d be lovely,” Robin smiled shyly. “Shouldn’t one of us stay in the office, though? I’m sure there’s plenty of paperwork.”

“That’s the benefit of being the boss. I get to decide what work needs to be done,” he teased and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose.

Robin giggled and kissed him chastely. “But what if someone calls?” 

“Then they can leave a message. Nobody has called yet today, I’ve already checked. Unless of course, you don’t want to spend the day with me?”

Robin smiled and lay back on the mattress, pulling him down over her. “Of course I do. I just don’t want any special treatment for sleeping with the boss.”

“Would you like a performance review?” Strike teased, nipping at her neck. “Your work has been exemplary, particularly last night. You take initiative, you’re thorough, your cunt is exceptional, and you taste exquisite - here, and here.” He playfully bit her neck as he slid a hand in between them, cupping her through the fabric of the boxers she had slept in.

“That’s quite the review,” she giggled.

“Does that mean you’ll stay in bed with me?”

Robin wiggled beneath him and wrapped her legs around his waist. “At least until I get hungry,” she teased.

“I’m already hungry,” he breathed, and kissed a path down her chest, between her breasts, and down to the waistband of the boxers. He looked up at her and an animalistic growl ripped from his throat as he tugged the boxers down her legs before burying his face in the apex of her thighs.

***

After spending the majority of the afternoon in bed, Robin insisted that they should shower and go out for surveillance on their new case, even though Strike tried to convince her to leave it and stay in bed with him. She climbed into the shower, leaving a frustrated Strike tangled in his soft sheets. 

In her haste to leave the house she shared with Matt, she had forgotten to pack some necessities, such as shampoo and conditioner and her hair dryer. She used some of Strike’s mint-scented shampoo, but unfortunately, he didn’t have any conditioner. Robin combed through her tangled locks carefully, making a mental note to buy some when they were out later. Without a way to dry her hair, she simply twisted it into a knot at the base of her neck and hoped Strike wasn’t planning on taking her anywhere too fancy for dinner. She had a feeling he would be more than happy to simply go to the Tottenham, which suited her perfectly.

As she unpacked the few things she had brought with her, she couldn’t help but feel she was invading his space. Though Robin was neat and tidy and somewhat of a minimalist herself, she looked at her makeup bag taking up what little space was available on his bathroom shelf and wondered if he had really thought it through when he had said she could stay with him. She hadn’t really thought about a long term plan at the time, but as she put her things away, she realized she was essentially moving in with him. Granted, he had told her she could stay forever, but she wondered if he might be having doubts now.

The idea of forever brought another uncomfortable thought to mind. Strike was an immortal being who didn’t age. What kind of future could they possibly have together? 

“You alright?” Strike had sidled up behind her in the small space and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You seem anxious.” He didn’t want to let her know that he had heard her musings, choosing instead to let her bring up her concerns in her own time. Truthfully, he hadn’t really thought that far himself. His mind turned once again to the prophecy, and he wondered if a future with Robin was even possible. If so, would he still be immortal?

She smiled back at him in the mirror, putting her concerns aside for the time being. “I’m fine,” she replied, leaning back into his chest.

***

They followed Becks from his office to a pub where he met the same group Strike had seen him with the other night. He had assumed they were work colleagues, but they didn’t appear to have come from the same office. Robin wrapped her arms around his neck as Strike surreptitiously took pictures of the group through the window. He hoped the pictures would turn out alright, as Robin’s fingers twirling in his hair were incredibly distracting. Their mark sat at a table next to a very attractive woman, though they didn’t seem particularly intimate with each other. Strike snapped some more pictures, trying to get the woman’s face in the frame. The detectives made their way inside the pub and chose a table in the corner, where they hoped in vain to catch snippets of the group’s conversation. 

Strike hadn’t shaved that day, allowing his thick stubble to somewhat conceal his face. Robin peered at him through the fake glasses she had donned, reminding herself that she was allowed to gaze at him openly now. She had never particularly been attracted to hairy men, but the rough stubble gracing his face and neck looked rather sexy indeed. Robin found herself wondering what it would feel like scratching along her skin or beneath her lips.

Strike looked at her and smirked. “I’ll show you later,” he teased, having heard her lusting over him. Robin flushed beautifully and Strike took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh wave of her delectable scent. He reached across the table and squeezed her fingers in a reassuring way.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” she giggled. 

“It can be quite useful sometimes, as you found out last night,” he said cheekily, and predictably Robin’s blush deepened. Strike rather enjoyed watching her skin pink; it reminded him of how her neck and chest had flushed last night as he had brought her to orgasm again and again.

Robin gasped in mock outrage. “You’re incorrigible! Don’t you have some surveilling to do?”

“I am! Becks just stepped out for a fag.” 

Robin looked over at the table they were watching and saw that he was right. She supposed that with as long as he had been a detective, it shouldn’t surprise her that he would be so good at watching his mark without actually watching his mark, but it irked her nonetheless that he could divide his attention so easily and effectively.

“Should we order food here, then?”

“Nah, they’re not eating, so who knows how long they’ll be here. I don’t want to be halfway through my meal and then have to leave. Plus I’d like to take you out when it’s not work-related.”

Robin smiled and nodded. Strike hadn’t released her hand and was now rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, leaving little trails of sparks behind. She wondered if she would ever get used to his electric touch. She hoped not.

***

After a kebab and a few more drinks, Strike and Robin made their way back to his flat, hand in hand. As they walked along Denmark Street, Robin became increasingly anxious. She was again overwhelmed by thoughts of the future, but didn’t want to be  _ that girl _ , pressuring him with talk of, “Where is this going?”

Matthew called yet again as they walked, and Robin finally shut off her phone, unable to deal with her ex’s drama at the moment.

“Is everything ok?” Strike asked concernedly, having once again heard her disquiet.

Robin giggled awkwardly. “Are you listening to me again?”

“No,” he lied, “you just seem tense.” Robin wasn’t sure she believed him. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Well, it’s just... are you sure you don’t mind if I stay with you? I can find somewhere else, if you’d prefer…”

Strike stopped walking and pulled her to him, wrapping a hand around her waist. He squeezed her hip as Robin tucked her arms inside his jacket. “I meant what I said last night. You can stay with me for as long as you like. But if you’d be more comfortable in your own place, I’ll help you find something.”

“It’s just… How is this going to work, being together and working together?”

Strike placed a soft, reassuring kiss on her lips. “As far as I’m concerned, we carry on like normal. Now is that really what’s bothering you?” He brushed her hair behind her ear, his fingers lightly caressing her neck.

“Well, no, but it’s a bit early for this kind of conversation, I think. Early in our relationship, I mean. Not that I think we’re in a relationship, but you know what I - “

“Robin,” Strike cut her off gently, “I told you last night, you’re incredibly special to me. You and I have shared things I’ve never shared with anyone else. You’re right, it is early in our relationship - and yes, I consider this a relationship,” he smiled down at her, “It’s still early on, so we don’t have to figure it all out right now, yeah?”

She nodded in agreement. “It’s just, where do you see this going? I’m human and you’re...not.”

Strike sighed and pulled her closer against him. “I don’t know, Robin. I don’t have those answers, but I do know that I was meant to find you. I know how I feel when I’m with you.” He placed her hand over his heart, where she could feel the combined beating of his bird and his heart. “I know this beats only for you, because of you. That’s enough for me, but if that’s not enough for you, tell me now. I don’t want to let myself come to love you only to lose you.”

Robin pressed her hand into his chest, feeling the warmth of his bird through his shirt. She nodded and whispered, “It’s enough for me too.” 

Neither acknowledged that they still hadn’t addressed the core issue, that he was immortal and she was not. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike and Robin talk about their relationship.

Robin slept peacefully for the first time in too many nights, nestled against Strike’s torso, his arm wrapped tightly around her. He was warm and solid, and his body molded to hers in the most comforting way. Though Robin had packed pyjamas in her holdall, she once again slept in Strike’s boxers and t-shirt; he, of course, chose to sleep in the nude. His scent lingered on the shirt and Robin snuggled into it, the faint smell of lavender and tobacco lulling her to sleep.

Robin woke slowly the next morning, chasing every last minute of the sleep that had been eluding her as of late. Strike’s arm was still wrapped around her, in the same position they had fallen asleep in. His lips were pressed against the back of her head, but she could tell by his even snores that he was still fast asleep. She smiled and pushed her arse back into him, causing his arm to involuntarily tighten around her. She sighed into his embrace and allowed herself a few more minutes to enjoy his comfortable bulk before needing to get ready for the day. She closed her eyes and was nearly back asleep before her alarm went off.

Strike grunted awake as Robin reached to turn it off. She tried to ease herself away from him, but his arms pulled her back. “Stay,” he sighed sleepily. 

“Can’t, got work to do. I’ve got the early surveillance.” She made to get out of bed, but again he pulled her back.

“S’alright, I’ll still pay you,” he mumbled, then suddenly more awake, he chuckled, “That didn’t sound right.”

This time when she tried to scoot away, his arms loosened and she climbed out of bed, making her way to the shower. While she was in the small bathroom, Strike checked his phone and saw that he had a message from Barclay. It had come in well after midnight, when he and Robin had been asleep. Tearing his mind away from thoughts of a wet, soapy Robin in the shower - using his soap, no less - he focused on reading the text.

**Got news for you. Wanna meet in the morning?**

He texted back to confirm the meeting and lay back on his pillows, his hands tucked behind his head, and his mind wandering back to Robin in the shower. He supposed it probably wasn’t big enough for both of them to fit in the small space together, but it could be worth a shot. 

Just when he was beginning to feel uncomfortably hard, he heard the water shut off. Robin emerged from the bathroom a short time later, hair wrapped up in a towel and her gorgeously moist and slightly pinkened skin on display. Strike groaned as he watched her pad across the room to the chest of drawers and bend over to pull out a sweater and jeans. Treated to a delightful view of her arse and more, he couldn’t resist palming himself. 

Robin turned to find his arm under the covers, a slight twitching of the duvet indicating movement underneath. She smiled and came over to place a kiss on his forehead, intentionally brushing her breasts over his face. His other arm wrapped around her waist lightning-fast and pulled her to him, grabbing a handful of her luscious arse.

Robin giggled, “Hey now, none of that! I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss Becks leaving his house.”

“Sod it, I doubt he’ll be having any clandestine meetings before work.”

Robin pushed at his chest playfully. “I wouldn’t want the other employees saying I’m not pulling my weight around here.”

“I’m pretty certain the boss wouldn’t mind,” he teased, but released his hold on her. 

Taking him completely by surprise, Robin rubbed his hardened length through the duvet and purred, “We’ll have to take care of this later. And maybe I can find out where else you like to be bitten?” She squeezed a little harder and gave him a coy smile before pulling her clothes on and breezing out the door, leaving a stunned and horny Strike behind.

***

Strike tried to go back to sleep, but his erection was persistent, demanding his attention. It was simply not possible to drift back into peaceful slumber when Robin’s alluring scent clung to the sheets wrapped tightly around him. Seeking distraction, he got out of bed and showered. This was a fruitless venture, as Robin’s scent now clung to his soap as well, which had an unhelpful aphrodisiacal effect.

He made himself a cup of coffee, allowing the robust aroma to overwhelm his senses, driving away the lingering hint of roses and musky leather that had transferred from his soap to his skin. His heartbeat was beginning to fade, which only made him that much hungrier for Robin. He hadn’t drunk from her last night, even though she had wanted him to. He couldn’t allow himself to get too used to his heart beating, or he would run the risk of draining her dry. The thought of parasitizing Robin had a unique sobering effect, like a hard slap in the face. Suddenly his hunger for her, in all senses of the word, vanished and was replaced by an intense protective instinct. He could, and he would, suffer the persistent discomfort of a silent heart - for her. 

Strike took his coffee downstairs to the office to get caught up on some paperwork and invoices. He worked sedulously, allowing the job to drive thoughts of Robin’s body and her blood further out of his mind until it was time to meet Barclay.

Strike arrived at the pub a little early and ordered fish and chips for himself. He was feeling particularly ravenous, having skipped breakfast and been surrounded by Robin’s scent all morning. Though it was still before noon, he ordered himself a pint of Doom Bar as well. Strike was just finishing the last of his chips when he saw Barclay walk through the door. The Scot nodded to the detective and went to the bar to get his own drink.

“You said you have news for me? Thanks,” Strike said as Barclay set a fresh pint in front of him. 

“Yeah, ye know the one Natural in the pack? She’s mated her recently turned boyfriend, apparently. There was a party last night tae celebrate it. I’m no’ sure he knew what he was gettin’ himself intae, though. He looked a bit in over his head.”

“Do you think he was turned against his will?” Strike asked, thinking that he might be able to pass on the crime to Charlotte and be rid of her and this case.

“I dinnae think so. More like he was tryin’ too hard tae impress everyone. He’s definitely a brown-nosin’ little prick. Had his nose right up Domhnall’s arse all night.”

Strike snorted into his beer. 

“Dom was chuffed o’ course. Kept goin’ on aboot how he’d give them breedin’ rights as soon as he’s powerful enough.”

“Any idea where he’s getting this power from?” 

Barclay shook his head and took a long drink from his pint. “Nope. He’s real cagey aboot it.”

“Do you think he could have a witch? How does he think he’s going to accomplish this ceremony he’s planning?”

“I’ve been wonderin’ that myself. I dinnae think he could give Transitions breedin’ rights withoot some kind o’ spell. Goes against nature, ye ken?”

“So no other illegal activity that we can hand over?”

“No’ that I’ve seen.”

“Is he still badgering you about pledging loyalty?”

“Nah, I think he’s a bit distracted now with the new matin’.”

Strike nodded, and drank pensively from his pint.

“So?” Sam asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Are ye goin’ tae explain why ye smell like yer secretary? No’ that it’s difficult tae figure oot,” he said with an impish grin.

Strike choked on his beer. Wiping liquid from his chin, he sputtered, “Oh, sod off.”

***

Robin was halfway through an email to a potential client when she heard steps on the metal stairs outside the office. She smiled and her heart fluttered. She felt like a schoolgirl, excited to see her crush walking into class. That pleasant feeling faded as soon as the office door opened. 

“Matt! What are you doing here?”

Matthew swept an appraising eye over the somewhat shabby office, his lip twitching with disdain. He looked apprehensively towards the inner office door, then back to Robin. His face contorted into what Robin assumed was supposed to be an apologetic expression, and she noticed there was moisture in his eyes. It did nothing to soften her feelings towards him.

She watched his large adam’s apple bob as he swallowed heavily. “I’ve tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Maybe that’s because I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Robin, I fucked up!” he exclaimed vehemently. “I came here to ask you to come home.” His voice wobbled with emotion.

Robin looked at him coldly. His eyebrows constricted when he saw that his uncharacteristic display of emotion was not having the desired effect. In a voice of deadly calm, she said, “When you say you fucked up, do you mean that you shouldn’t have shagged someone else, or that you shouldn’t have gotten caught?”

He took a different tack, his voice shifting from sorrow to dignified contrition. “I’m so sorry, Robs. I’m not even sure how it happened, I - “

“You’re not sure how it happened? You mean your dick found its own way between her legs?”

“No, I - “ Matthew rubbed a frustrated hand over the back of his neck. “I meant I didn’t plan it, I never meant for this to happen.” He was defensive now, and there was a bitter edge in his voice.

“Then what did you mean to happen? And Sarah, Matt? Sarah _fucking_ Shadlock? After all the times you assured me you were just friends, I should have known! I did know! I should have trusted my instincts!” Robin hadn’t even registered getting out of her chair, but now she was advancing on Matthew, feeling thunderous.

“We _were_ friends! Besides, what about you? You can’t tell me that nothing ever happened at uni, when we were away from each other!” Angry deflection now, a tactic Robin had become all too familiar with. This might have worked on her before, to make her feel irrationally guilty, but it didn’t work now. A strength that had been building since she first started working for Strike surged forth from deep within her, and she refused to back down. 

“Actually, something did happen when I was at uni, or don’t you remember?” His words were slow to register through her anger, but finally her brain caught up and she paused, the fight dying out of her instantly. “Wait, just how long has this been going on?” she asked quietly.

Matthew swallowed heavily again, looking like a man about to step into the gallows. 

“How long?” Robin asked again, her voice firm and fierce with rage.

“It hasn’t happened since then, not until recently.”

Robin choked out a breath, “So when I was… you were…” Furious tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill over. She tried unsuccessfully to blink them away. She looked at the man she had once loved, the man who had betrayed her in the worst possible way, and she felt nothing but revulsion.

Matthew took a step towards her, his hand outstretched. Robin stepped backwards out of his reach as if he were a snake slithering towards her through the grass. 

“Robin, I’m so fucking sorry. It was stupid, but it’s over now, we broke it off. That’s why I came here. I want you back.”

“You know, you never were a very good liar, Matt.” Robin was about to assert that it didn’t look very ‘over’ the other night, but she heard voices and footsteps approaching the office. 

Barclay opened the door to the office and froze, his hand still resting on the door handle. Matthew’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asked.

Barclay took in Robin’s red and watery eyes, her look of pure fury, and put the pieces together immediately. “I’m in need of a private detective. What are _ye_ doin’ here? Ye two know each other?” Sam glanced at Robin, willing her to understand.

Strike, who was a little slower climbing the stairs than Sam, nearly bowled the Scot over as he came in the door. “What are you - “ he paused when he saw Matthew and Robin. 

Three things happened simultaneously - Strike smelled the wolfy aroma of woods and sweat characteristic of Moonlighters, Matt’s eyes flashed silver and his lip curled up in a snarl, while Sam shouted in Strike’s head, “ _I know him, he’s in the pack_!”

Robin looked at Matthew in alarm as she registered the change in his eyes. She gasped and backed away from him, lost her balance, and bumped the back of her legs painfully against the edge of her desk.

Strike lifted his hands in a placating way, “Matthew, calm down. I’m not a threat to you.”

Matthew took a half step forwards, pointing a finger at Strike. “You’re one of _them_ . They told me about your lot. They were right, you stink like blood and death, and…” He revolved slowly on the spot, turning his furious gaze to Robin. The silver glow of his eyes brightened. “ _You_ . Why does _that_ ,” he jabbed a finger towards Strike, “smell like _you_?” 

Robin’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water gasping for breath. Before her numb lips could form words, Matthew continued, “I knew you were fucking him, all those late nights! And you dare to accuse me of being a liar? Sanctimonious bitch!”

“Watch your fucking mouth!” Strike growled, taking a large stride towards Matthew.

Suddenly something in Robin’s brain snapped into place. Matthew’s eyes - he was a Moonlighter, and he hadn’t been for long, at least not when he and Strike first met at that pub. She didn’t know exactly how it worked, but Robin could think of only one way he could have been turned. 

Not wanting a repeat of the scene with Roy, she stepped in between her old lover and her new, pushing against each of their shoulders as they tried to advance on each other. Sam was leaning against the doorframe, seemingly at ease, though his muscles were taut and ready to spring into action. 

“ _Let me handle this_ ,” she said silently to Strike. She stepped behind Matthew, neither man taking their eyes off each other, and lifted his shirt. “Where did you get these scratches, Matt? Did Sarah do this to you? Is this when she turned you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matthew said unconvincingly, trying to turn away out of her reach.

“I think you’ve told enough lies today, Matt. I saw your eyes, I know what you are. I’m assuming Sarah did this?”

Strike caught a glimpse of the scratches and his eyes widened as realization came crashing down on him. “Let me see,” he said, stepping over to look at Matthew’s back.

Matthew slapped his hands away. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Show ‘em the scratches, mate,” Barclay said calmly.

Strike used the momentary distraction to lift Matthew’s shirt at the back.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Matthew growled, shoving Strike ineffectually; he might as well have shoved the wall.

But Strike had already seen the raised marks along the man’s skin. “You’ve been mated,” he said disdainfully. 

“What does that mean?” Robin asked Strike. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her; his face held nothing but pity, and he didn’t answer her right away.

Finally, Sam broke the silence. “It’s the equivalent o’ bein’ married,” he said quietly, his eyes full of sympathy for Robin. “That’s a mate mark. Wolves mark each other when they choose a mate. He’ll carry that forever.”

She jerked back as if she had been slapped and turned to Matthew, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “You got mated to her while we were still engaged? And then you have the audacity to say you want me back?” Robin was so angry she was practically vibrating with fury.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Strike said, drawing himself to his full and impressive height.

“Just try and make me,” Matthew jeered. “Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you?” he spat, getting in the detective’s face.

Strike replied calmly, “I think you’ve been given some bad information. It’s not a full moon, and I’ve fought many Moonlighters who were trained in combat. It wouldn’t end well for you. And now, like I said, it’s time for you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until Robin says she’s coming home,” Matthew said stubbornly. 

Robin let out a humorless laugh. “As if I would come back to you now! You’re _mated_ to another woman! What would I be, exactly? Your pet? We’re over, Matt! Here, why don’t you give this to Sarah! Maybe she’ll get better use out of it than I did.” She dug her engagement ring out of her bag and thrust it into his hand.

“Robin,” Matthew whispered urgently, grabbing her arm, “I know you don’t want to listen to me right now, but please believe me when I tell you that you can’t trust him. You do know what he is, don’t you? He’ll manipulate you, use you, lie to you. It’s what they do!” he hissed.

“You mean that’s what _you_ do,” she said, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “Cormoran would never hurt me. He’s not like you.”

“Fine, have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Matthew gave her one last appraising look and turned to Barclay.

“You’ll never make the pack after I tell them you’ve been consorting with one of _them_ ,” he spat, nodding towards Strike.

“Och, yer no’ goin’ tae tell them,” Sam said calmly, “because yer just as guilty as I am. I told ye, I’m in need o’ a private detective for a personal matter, and he specializes in supernaturals like us. But if ye think Dom won’ string ye up just as surely as he would me, go right ahead and tell him how ye know I was here.”

Matthew’s mouth moved furiously, as if he could come to a conclusion by chewing on Sam’s words. He appeared to agree that he shouldn’t be in the presence of a Night Walker for any longer than necessary and turned back to Robin. “I’ll box up the rest of your things. Come get them on the weekend.” Without another word, he scuttled out the door in a cowardly retreat, his footsteps clanging loudly on the metal stairs. 

Barclay gave him a head start, then nodded at Strike and Robin. “I’ll just leave ye tae it, then.” He gave Robin a small salute on his way out.

No sooner had the door shut behind him than Strike had gathered Robin into his arms. He rubbed a soothing hand along her back and buried his nose and lips into her hair. “Are you alright?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the arousal stirring within him at having Robin pressed against him.

“I don’t know,” Robin murmured. “I don’t want him back, but we’ve been together for so long. And then to find out that he’s been turned into a werewolf, I’m assuming by Sarah, and that they’re mated now, whatever that means. And if that’s not bad enough, apparently he cheated on me with her at uni, after I was…” 

Strike squeezed his arms tighter around her and kissed her hair. 

“I’m sorry, Robin,” he whispered. 

Robin pushed back her tears. It felt ridiculous to be held by her new lover while she cried over her old one. 

Strike must have heard her, as he murmured, “It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to be hurt.”

Robin took a deep, bracing breath. “I don’t think I’m even upset over splitting up. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time. We’ve been growing apart for ages. I think it’s more the betrayal, you know?”

“Yeah, I do know, actually. I went through that with Charlotte more times than I care to admit.”

“I just don’t understand why he thought I would come back to him. He said it’s over with Sarah, but that can’t be right, not if they're mated. I’m certain he was lying.”

“Yeah, he had to have been. That’s actually what I was meeting Sam about. The pack had a party last night to celebrate their mating. Sam reckons he may not have realized what he was getting himself into. Or he could just be a narcissistic wanker that wants to have his cake and eat it too.” That earned him a coughing laugh from Robin.

“When did you notice the mark on his back?” he asked gently.

“Just a few days ago.”

“Has he been acting differently since then?”

“Yeah, come to think of it. He’s been distant at times, and then he would turn around and be apologetic. But the spark was definitely gone. I thought maybe it was just me.”

Strike grunted. “Well that makes sense, if he was already mated by that point. Wolves mate for life. He wouldn’t be able to feel anything for you, even if he wanted to. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you to hear.”

Robin considered his words and took stock of her feelings. With Strike’s strong arms around her, she realized that she was grateful for the unexpected direction her life had taken. She could feel the warmth of his bird mark seeping through his shirt, soothing the sting of betrayal.

“Are you alright?” he whispered when she didn’t respond.

She sank into the comfort of his solid chest and she felt perfectly at home. “Yeah, I think I am,” she murmured, looking up into his eyes. She threaded a hand into the hair at the base of his neck, pulling his lips towards hers. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Robin receives a visit from Matthew, which goes horribly wrong when Strike and Barclay appear, and secrets come to light.

Robin took the early surveillance shift once again. She had slept poorly last night, but not because she had been plagued by nightmares. Her troubled mind had been awash with thoughts of her former fiancé and his new mate. Robin tried to tell herself that she wasn’t hurt, that she had moved on, and in truth, she knew that she had moved on before it had been officially over between them. If she had been honest with herself from the beginning, she would have realized that she hadn’t been in love with Matthew for a long time. Their love had been young and sweet and immature, and she was simply in a different place in her life now. She was growing into the person she knew she was meant to be, and it was because of the man that now lay beside her, not the one that lay behind her. 

However, that didn’t stop the pain or the guilt from creeping in. Finding out that the person she had thought she would spend her life with had betrayed her in the worst possible way was excruciating. She reasoned that it was normal, natural to grieve. But allowing herself to feel anything for her lost betrothal brought with it a deep sense of guilt. She shouldn’t be thinking about the man who hurt her when she was in the arms of another, and she certainly shouldn’t be shedding any tears. A small part of her feared that Strike would grow tired of her if she seemed to still be hung up on her ex. He had lived for a long time, experienced so much. Surely he could have his choice of any woman? Why would he want to stay with a sulking cry-baby? 

And so as she had lain next to him, her head nestled against his arm, she swore to herself that she would not shed another tear for Matthew. He had caused her enough pain already; she wouldn’t allow him to ruin another relationship for her. 

Strike was the only person she really felt she could be herself around. Perhaps it was a side effect of him being able to hear her thoughts, but it felt like he knew her far more intimately than even her own family. Or maybe it was because their hearts were somehow linked; his heart beat only for her - literally. Robin laughed to herself at the cliche and hugged him tighter.

She thought of the first night they had spent together, when she had discovered his bird mark. She wondered what it must be like for him to feel her heart beating against his chest. She tried to imagine what it must feel like to not have a heartbeat of your own. Unbidden, Matthew’s words to her from the day before floated to the forefront of her mind.  _ He’ll manipulate you, use you, lie to you.  _ Thinking of how uncomfortable it must be to have a silent heart, she felt a momentary quiver of fear that he could be right. What if Strike was just keeping her close so he could feel his heart beating again? He had told her that had never happened to him before...

She castigated herself for even giving the thought space in her mind.  _ Of course he wouldn’t do that _ , she told herself.  _ I know he feels for me like I do for him.  _

She hoped she was right.

***

Robin returned from surveillance with sandwiches, as she knew that Strike would probably be hungry. He had told her that his heartbeat had finally faded, so she figured he might be wanting sustenance of some kind. 

She felt another wave of guilt as she remembered her doubts from that morning about his motivations. Hadn’t he been the one to insist he wasn’t going to drink from her? And hadn’t she been the one that practically begged him to do it? Feeling somewhat embarrassed, she climbed the stairs to their office and put it forcefully from her mind, lest Strike be hurt from hearing her thoughts. 

He was on the phone when she entered and handed him a sandwich. He reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips before pulling her onto his lap. 

“Hey, Ilsa I’m going to put you on speaker. Robin’s here with me.” He clicked a button on the screen and set the phone on the desk in front of him, then wrapped his arms around Robin’s waist.

“Hi, Robin. I’m sure you all are busy, so I’ll get right to the point. I understand Corm’s told you I’m a witch.”

“He did, yes.”

“He also told me about your sleep paralysis problem, so I borrowed a spell book from a friend of mine. There’s nothing specifically about sleep paralysis, but there are a few spells for bad dreams and more peaceful sleep. Why don’t you two come over for dinner tonight and I’ll see what I can do for you?”

“Oh! Thank you, that’s very kind,” Robin said.

“Corm, would you mind picking up some wine to bring with you? I only have one bottle left.”

“Sure thing, see you tonight,” Strike said and rang off. 

“I brought you a sandwich, thought you might be hungry.”

“I’m always hungry. Did you bring biscuits, though?”

Robin grinned and produced a package of chocolate biscuits from her bag.

***

“Robin, lovely to see you again,” Ilsa greeted her and Strike with a kiss on the cheek, then led them into the kitchen, where Nick was stirring a delicious-smelling curry on the stove. The aromas of ginger, and garlic, and exotic spices filled the air, and Robin’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Strike dug a wine opener out of a drawer, looking perfectly at home, and opened the bottle he had brought. As he handed the women each a glass of wine, he could hear anxiety in Robin’s thoughts over having a spell placed on her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and dropped a kiss on her temple. She sighed into him and he squeezed her hip reassuringly. 

“So how does this work?” he asked Ilsa, and he felt Robin cling to him a little more tightly, glad he had broached the topic for her.

A tray sat on the end of the breakfast bar laden with piles of herbs, a terracotta-colored tea set, and a large aged-leather tomb. Ilsa pointed at the book as she answered, “There’s nothing in this book about the Night-mare you were talking about, and nothing about demons of any kind. So I have no idea what kind of sachet your mother had made for you. I could guess, but the wrong combination of herbs could actually strengthen its hold. I’ll see if I can find anything at the archives next week while I’m looking for prophecy reversal.”

Robin tried to make sense of her words, but it just wasn’t coming together. One word stuck in her mind like wet cement, however, and she found she couldn’t focus on anything else.  _ Demon.  _ It was a moment before Robin realized Ilsa was still speaking.

“ - like to try a cleansing spell as well. Auras are my specialty, and as I’ve explained to Corm before, your aura is very clouded and dark. If something has attached itself to you, this might help break the connection,” Ilsa explained. 

_ Attached itself? _ Robin’s mind was reeling. What was she talking about? Did Cormoran think a demon had possessed her? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glaring at Ilsa.  _ He doesn’t want me to know,  _ she thought. She clutched her wine tightly. Strike could feel her heart accelerating, heard her anxious thoughts, and silently cursed Ilsa and her big mouth. Then he cursed himself for not telling Robin his theory before coming over. He squeezed her hip again and rubbed his hand over her back as Ilsa went to help Nick dish up the food, oblivious to her faux pas.

“Are you alright?” Strike whispered in Robin’s ear.

“A demon?” she hissed back.

“Talk later?” 

Robin nodded, and he could hear her irritation and fear, making him feel extremely guilty for keeping this from her.

The friends settled themselves around the table for dinner. Ilsa at least had the grace to look contrite when she caught Strike’s irritated expression, having finally realized that she had said too much. The food was delicious, however, and tensions within the group ebbed with every bite, helped along by a covert calming spell from Ilsa. Strike’s knee pressed firmly against Robin’s was comforting, and he placed a reassuring hand on her thigh. 

Nick served a simple apple tart for dessert, claiming it was his specialty. It was wonderful indeed, and Robin was soon feeling extremely full. As Nick cleared the dishes and started washing up, Ilsa switched on the kettle and readied her tray of supplies on the table.

Robin picked up the teapot to examine it more closely. She hadn’t noticed before, but the simple design was actually not simple at all. Vines snaked all around the teapot, covered in closed blooms. Her fingers tingled slightly where they touched the clay surface. She hastily put the teapot back as Ilsa carried over the boiling kettle and settled herself into one of the small wooden chairs. 

Ilsa filled the teapot with hot water and tipped the contents of a small bowl of herbs inside. She picked up the teapot and, holding it in both palms, swirled the contents while muttering under her breath. As Ilsa swirled and whispered, color began to sweep through the vines. The branches flushed with a deep, rich brown as the leaves filled with a lush green. Flowers began to bloom along the vines in delicate shades of lavender, blue, and yellow, and a peach colored rose blossomed on the lid of the teapot. When the petals had opened fully, Robin could have sworn she caught the fragrant scent of roses wafting up from the brew. Ilsa abruptly stopped swirling and poured the steaming liquid into a simple clay cup.

“This tea cleanses the subconscious, so it should help block bad dreams. You should drink it every few days.”

“What’s in it?” Robin asked as she slid into a chair and brought the cup up to her nose, inhaling a delightfully floral scent.

“Pink, yellow, and white rose petals, mugwort, sweet mint, jasmine, licorice root, and cinnamon.”

Robin took a sip of the warm, soothing liquid. She could feel the tea leaving a pleasantly hot trail all the way down her throat. “Mmm, this is really good.”

“Don’t drink it too quickly,” Ilsa warned, “or it might make you a little lightheaded since you’ve had wine. I’ll send you home with a jar. One heaping spoonful into boiling water, and steep for at least five minutes. It won’t be as strong without my teapot here, but it should still work.”

Robin nodded in acknowledgement and took another sip to hide the blush that the mention of “home” had brought on. She didn’t really have a home anymore. Her home was now her boss’s flat. Though he wasn’t just her boss, was he? He had said that what they had was enough for him, but what exactly did they have? Robin knew that what she felt for Cormoran was beyond a simple infatuation. Neither of them had elucidated their feelings yet, but she could feel it when they touched, or when they kissed, or when they made love. What they felt for each other was deep and true, and completely incomprehensible. And he had asked her to  _ stay forever. _

Forever. Not for the first time, Robin wondered if this was really wise. He was an immortal being. What kind of future could she possibly have with him? Had he meant “forever” in the literal sense? Suddenly their discussion about the direction of their relationship seemed incomplete.

As Robin sipped her tea and Ilsa prepared the next item, Strike rubbed his hand soothingly along her leg, looking into her eyes. His gaze held concern and a touch of sorrow, and Robin wondered if he had heard her thoughts.

Robin finished her tea a little more quickly than was advisable, as she watched Ilsa wrap a bundle of herbs tightly with black string. Each sip of the magical brew had a soothing effect, and soon Strike noticed that Robin’s heart rate had calmed considerably, and she was looking rather serene. Robin turned to him and smiled dreamily at him, and he had to bite back his chuckle.

“Ok, next thing is the cleansing ritual. Erm, you’ll need to be naked for that one, or mostly naked. We can do it in the spare bedroom if you like, or wherever you’d be most comfortable. Corm can stay with you of course, if that would help.”

Robin was feeling exceptionally calm from the tea, or she might have been extremely apprehensive at lying naked on a bed while a witch performed a ritual over her. They went upstairs to the spare bedroom. Ilsa instructed her to strip to her knickers and lie on the bed, and then left the room so she could undress in privacy.

Strike helped Robin strip her clothes off, letting his hands and lips linger on her skin much longer than was strictly necessary. His skin felt amazing against hers, and Robin melted into his chest. When he scraped his stubble along her shoulder, she shivered and moaned. She arched into him and tangled her fingers in his hair, eliciting a soft rumble of laughter. Strike pulled back and guided Robin to the bed. He chortled again when she stuck her lip out in a pout at the loss of his embrace, and placed a kiss on the top of her head. 

Whether Ilsa could sense that she needed to give them more time, or she was just being extra cautious, a full ten minutes had passed before she knocked on the door and opened it. Strike was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Robin’s hand and looking rather pleased with himself. Ilsa spotted the red flush on Robin’s neck where Strike’s stubble had made prolonged contact, and she gave him a stern look, which he met unashamedly. 

“Ok, start out on your stomach,” she said. Robin obediently rolled over.

Ilsa took out a small bottle of oil scented with rosemary and sage and dripped some onto Robin’s back. She swept her hands up and down Robin’s back, spreading the aromatic oil over her skin. Next she took out the herbs she had bundled together and held a lighter to them until they caught fire. She blew out the flames, releasing a stream of fragrant smoke. She swirled the herb bundle over Robin’s back, using her other hand to waft the smoke over Robin’s body while she chanted:

“Spirits of the night, I beseech thee

Find favor with mine call and plea.

Cleanse this mind, remove the past

Give her happiness at last.

Goddess above, Goddess of Light,

Shield and protect her, day and night.

Negativity of this sacred space

I banish you by the light of grace.

Hold or power you have not here,

We stand and face you without fear.

Into this smoke I release

All energies that do not bring peace.

Positive feeling alone come near,

All others wither and disappear.

Spirits of the night, I beseech thee,

Find favor with mine call and plea.”

Robin lay, deeply contented, a small smile curling her lips as Ilsa repeated her prayer several times.

“Ok, Robin, can you turn over now? I need to do your front as well,” Ilsa said softly, her voice gentle and soothing. As Robin turned over, Ilsa surreptitiously searched her side for the horseshoe that had appeared. She looked up at Strike and gave a small shake of her head, indicating that she couldn’t see it. If Robin had been more in control of her faculties, she may have noticed the look that passed between the two friends, but she didn’t. 

Ilsa took out a different bottle of oil that was scented with satsuma and lemongrass. She dropped a few droplets onto Robin’s stomach, then rubbed the oil into her skin by sweeping her hands down and out to the sides. Ilsa then swiped her thumb across Robin’s forehead, leaving a small trail of scented oil behind.

Ilsa handed the burning herbs to Strike and instructed him to hold them over Robin’s navel. Her hands swept gracefully up Robin’s body, a hair's breadth from her skin. She worked her way from Robin’s hips up towards her head, wafting the aromatic smoke over her flesh. When she reached Robin’s chest, her hands slowed as if they were trying to push through a thick liquid. She spent extra time in this area, until her hands eventually moved more freely. When Ilsa reached her head, her hands swished forcefully upwards away from Robin’s hair, as she pushed the negative energy from her aura.

Ilsa gasped and Strike heard her think, “It’s so beautiful!” As Robin’s aura gradually cleared, it became brighter and more brilliant. What Ilsa had thought was a light yellow became a luminous gold swirled with silver. It glittered and shone as if studded with millions of diamonds, which acted as prisms, scattering light with a kaleidoscope of colors. She had never seen anything like it.

Robin opened her eyes and sat up, suddenly less befuddled and more embarrassed at her exposed chest. Strike heard her thoughts and handed her her shirt so she could cover herself. 

“Finished,” Ilsa said. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” Robin said, sounding surprised.

“Let me know if that doesn’t work for the sleep paralysis, and we can try something else.”

Robin nodded her thanks and Ilsa excused herself so that Robin could get dressed. Strike picked up her clothes and held out her jeans for her to step into. Robin slipped her arms into her bra and Strike fastened it for her, then pulled her shirt down over her head. 

“Alright?” he asked as he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. 

“Mmm, very. Thank you,” Robin purred. With her mind clear and refreshed, she had already forgotten about the questions she had wanted to ask him once they were alone, and Strike didn’t remind her.

***

Robin slept soundly that night. When the darkness tried to creep into her mind, it clawed at the wall that had been erected around her, unable to find purchase. Robin rolled to her side, but didn’t wake. Strike turned toward her in sleep and tucked an arm around her, pulling her into him. Robin sighed in and arched against his chest, where she remained the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spells adapted from [this website](https://witchesofthecraft.com/category/book-of-spells/dream-spells/)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Ilsa tries to cure Robin of her sleep paralysis through magic.

Strike and Robin were seated outside a small café, finishing breakfast on Saturday morning. Robin was feeling rather refreshed after a peaceful night’s sleep that she wasn’t sure could be entirely attributed to Ilsa’s spells; she didn’t have sleep paralysis episodes every night, after all. But she would be lying if she said she wasn’t hoping that Ilsa’s spells had finally cured her of the curse that had plagued her since her horrific attack at uni.

The morning sun was peeking through the clouds and Strike turned up the collar of his jacket as he drew on his cigarette. It had been a few days since he’d had blood, and the warmth of the sun was starting to irritate his skin. Robin noticed the movement and immediately wished she could ease his suffering.

“I’m fine,” he smiled at her. 

“Are you always listening to me?”

“Maybe you’re always speaking to me,” he teased. “I don’t do it on purpose, really. But I just hear you so clearly. More so than anyone else.” He reached over with the hand not holding his burning cigarette and laced his fingers with hers. Robin thrilled at the tiny shock she received when their skin touched. Would she ever get used to that?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you today?” he asked.

Robin grimaced. “No, I don’t think it would be a good idea. No reason to add more tension. Besides, don’t you need to follow Becks?”

Strike looked like he wanted to argue, but instead just nodded. She was right, his presence would surely set her ex-fiancé and new wolf on edge more than was necessary. Even though it was getting closer to the new moon, when Moonlighters were at their weakest, there was no sense in risking an altercation. Still, he didn’t like the thought of Robin venturing alone into the veritable wolf’s den. 

However, this afternoon was probably their best shot of catching Becks in infidelity, if, in fact, he was being unfaithful. He had told his wife that he was watching a rugby match, but their client had never known her husband to be interested in rugby, and thus thought he must be meeting a woman instead. Strike wished he had asked their client for a personal item of her husband’s so that he could use his gifts and get the case solved sooner rather than later, and he would be free to spend the afternoon with Robin. But, he supposed the final goodbye to her fiancé was probably something that Robin should do alone.

“Yeah, you’re right. But sod Becks, if you need me, I’ll be there,” he said nonetheless.

Robin smiled at him and squeezed his fingers, then offered him the rest of her bacon, which he gratefully accepted in two large mouthfuls. 

“Cormoran?” Robin asked as he finished the bacon, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he responded thickly, licking grease off his thumb.

“What did Ilsa mean? Last night, when she mentioned demons?”

Strike’s chewing slowed guiltily as he considered how to answer her. The bacon seemed to turn to dust in his mouth and he swallowed with difficulty. He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I asked her to look into a possibility I had been kicking around.”

“That I’m possessed by a demon?” Robin wasn’t sure if she should find the situation laughable or infuriating. The latter seemed to win out, and Strike sensed her irritation.

“No, not really.” A crease formed in his brow and he sighed heavily, rubbing a hand through his messy curls. “Your sleep paralysis… It wasn’t always called that. When I was a boy, there was a common superstition that an evil spirit - a demon - called the Night-mare, would sit on your chest while you were sleeping. That’s how bad dreams came to be called nightmares.”

“And you think this is a real thing?” Robin asked skeptically.

“I didn’t, not until the other night. I saw something there, though. And I remembered that my mother had a charm made for me that was supposed to protect me from it, so I asked Ilsa if she could help.”

“And how is this  _ demon  _ supposed to have found me?”

“People used to say that you could summon it, bring it upon yourself, just by talking about it.”

Robin laughed humorlessly. “Well that can’t be it, can it? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“No, it can’t,” Strike said softly, choosing not to voice his other suspicion. He was hoping Ilsa might find more useful information that would answer more of his questions, though he was fairly certain the Night-mare, if that’s truly what it was, had come to be connected with Robin following - or during - her attack at uni. 

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” Strike rubbed a hand roughly through his hair once more, a sure sign of stress. He was pleased when he felt Robin’s soft hand tentatively grazing his thigh. He captured her fingers at once and brought them to his lips. “I was afraid, I think - afraid of worrying you, or… scaring you.”

To his surprise, Robin laughed. “Come off it, Strike. I can handle things, you know. I  _ have  _ handled things. I’m stronger than that. I’ve  _ seen  _ things, recently even.”

“I know you have. And I know you’re incredibly strong.” He paused and squeezed her hand for emphasis before continuing. “But can you fault me for wanting to protect you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Robin replied quietly. “But you still should have told me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I care about you, Robin, very much.” He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist and nuzzled his cheek into her palm.

“I care about you, too,” she whispered.

“So I’m forgiven?” Strike asked with a cheeky grin.

Robin rolled her eyes. “Yes, you’re forgiven. Unless you’re hiding any other monumental secrets?”

He paused for a moment, then shook his head, “No, nothing else.”

Robin had said it teasingly, but now she wasn’t sure she believed him.

***

They kissed goodbye at the Tube station, Strike returning to his flat, Robin continuing on to the house she had thought she would be building a life in. She hoped that Matthew wouldn’t be home, that he would perhaps have thought to give her privacy while she collected her things, but she could not have been more wrong. Not only was Matthew in the house, but so was Sarah. Robin received quite a shock when the door was answered not by her tall and dark-haired ex, but by the shorter blonde-haired she-wolf that had replaced her.

Sarah smiled widely at Robin as she answered the door, being sure to show as many of her teeth as possible. The look was more menacing than friendly. Sarah sniffed audibly and wrinkled her nose at Strike’s scent that clung to Robin. Without uttering a word, Sarah turned and led her into the sitting room, where Matthew was stacking boxes of Robin’s things. Glancing at the mantle, Robin saw that the pictures of her and Matthew had been replaced by pictures of him and Sarah. Most looked recent, but there were a couple that were definitely older, possibly from uni. Robin felt a rush of anger at the reminder of just how long Matthew had been unfaithful to her. The look on Sarah’s face told her that the placement of the pictures in this room had been carefully orchestrated to inflict as much emotional harm as possible.

Sarah’s smile widened a fraction as she said, “I’ll just give you two a moment. I’ll be in the kitchen,” she added to Matthew, trailing her fingers along his shoulder in an intimate fashion as she passed by him. A flicker of light from her hand caught Robin’s attention, and she noticed that Sarah was now wearing the ring Matthew had proposed to her with.

As Sarah’s footsteps faded away, Matthew looked at Robin apprehensively, and she thought she saw a flicker of remorse pass over his features. 

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Robin indicated the few boxes at his feet, which she had not expected to be packed already, and said, “Thanks for doing this.”

Matthew nodded. “Robs, I know everything is fucked, but I just wanted you to know that I did love you. And I wasn’t lying when I said that I never meant for any of this to happen.”

Robin heard the truth of his words, and realized she felt the same. She had loved him, once, when she was young and naïve. But they had become different people, gradually drifting apart as they found themselves. She supposed it was regrettable that they didn’t find themselves in each other, but she couldn’t regret what she had with Cormoran. 

She felt an odd kinship with Matthew in that moment, as she had also never meant to fall for someone else. But fall she had, hard and fast. Cormoran occupied a special place in her heart and in her life. He had quickly become her best friend, and then her lover. He understood her better than anyone ever had. It felt as though some invisible force bound their hearts together. Even though she was fairly certain he hadn’t been completely honest with her that morning, she couldn’t deny how right it felt to be in his arms. She had never believed in fate or destiny, until she had seen the robin tattooed on his chest.  _ Kismet  _ seemed to be the only explanation.

Robin couldn’t think of any way to respond to Matthew’s plea other than to simply nod. A moment passed between them, where both regretted the loss of what they had once had, and they stepped into each other’s embrace for a final hug goodbye.

“I’ll help you carry these out,” Matthew said, stepping away from her abruptly, his nose twitching as if irritated by some fragrance.

Together they carried the few boxes of her possessions out to the Land Rover, which was still parked along the street where Robin had left it days previously. She was about to climb behind the steering wheel when Matthew stopped her.

“Robs, wait. I don’t want you to think I’m prejudiced, but I have to say this. You shouldn’t be with him.”

“Matt-” Robin started to protest, but he cut her off.

“No, listen, Robin, this isn’t jealousy talking, or anything like that. Do you know what he is?”

Robin drew herself up to her full height. “Yes, I do, and I know what you’re going to say. Cormoran would never hurt me.”

“That’s what they want you to believe,” Matthew insisted and Robin rolled her eyes and turned away. He caught her elbow and pulled her back to him. “They’ve told me about his kind, Robin. This is what they do. They draw you in and make you promises so you’ll let your guard down. They get you thinking that you  _ want  _ to be their food so they can keep leeching off of you. He’s hunting you, Robin. He’s a predator, and you’re his prey. He’s just biding his time.”

Robin yanked her arm out of his grip. “You don’t know him, Matt. He’s not like the others. I trust him.”

Matthew took a step back from her, his expression flat, and said, “Then you’re a fool.”

Robin slammed the door and pulled away from the curb almost before the engine had finished turning over. She was so furious that her hands were shaking and she felt sick. Her stomach seemed to be expanding and contracting rapidly, and she feared she wouldn’t be able to make it back to Denmark Street without vomiting. 

His words seem to stick in her head, replaying in an endless loop. Each time his expression in her mind’s eye became more and more derisive. She was so incensed, first at his attack on Strike’s character, then at her own sanity and discernment, that she slammed on the brakes and came to a full stop in the middle of the street, breathing as heavily as if she had just run a marathon. She tried to tell herself that it was irrational to be this angry. She was right, Matthew didn’t know Strike at all. But her thoughts kept wandering back to that morning, and to last night, when she wasn’t certain Strike had been entirely honest with her. 

_ Then you’re a fool,  _ her mind replayed the words back to her yet again.

Bile rose up in her throat and she swallowed it back with difficulty. She slowly let off the brake and eased the truck forward to the end of the street. Her hands were still shaking, and her stomach continued to clench nauseatingly. She turned right, instead of left, opting instead for Nick and Ilsa’s, which was closer than Denmark Street. She hoped Ilsa would be able to work some witchy magic to help her calm down. Little did she know, her anger would see no reprieve.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> Strike and Robin have a heart-to-heart. Robin has an infuriating encounter with Matthew.

Robin banged her fist on the door, hardly caring that she probably should have called first. Though she didn’t know Ilsa well, she was the closest thing that Robin had to a friend in London. She felt safe and comfortable with the witch, as if they shared a secret kinship. Ilsa opened the door and her annoyed expression at the boisterous intrusion rapidly melted into one of concern. 

“Robin? Are you alright? You don’t look well.”

“I don’t feel well. Do you mind if I come in?”

Ilsa stepped back to let her through the door. Her brow furrowed as she took in Robin’s aura, which was currently roiling with red and orange. The colors crested like waves on a stormy sea, crashing violently back to the surface. Robin seemed to be almost vibrating, the edges of her figure blurring slightly. 

Ilsa innocently placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder as she led her to the sitting room, muttering the words of a calming spell under her breath. The red and orange waves still dominated Robin’s angry aura, but eased into a more gentle swirl, making room for a touch of blue and violet to bleed through the golden-hued background. Her strange tremor seemed to subside as well. 

“Are you alright?” Ilsa asked again.

“Yeah. No. I don’t know. How long have you known? When we were here last night, you said something about… When did Cormoran tell you about me?”

Realization swept through Ilsa like light flooding a darkened room. She took in Robin’s obvious anger, the hint of sadness hiding in her aura. “I’m sorry, Robin, I assumed he had already told you about the prophecy. When he told me how he felt about y- “

Robin interrupted, her look turning to one of confusion. “Prophecy? What prophecy? What are you talking about?”

Ilsa froze, her breath stalling in her chest. She had well and truly stepped in it now. She watched as Robin’s eyes glazed over, and she correctly assumed the latter was remembering her comment last night about prophecy reversal. Her mind worked furiously, trying to figure out how to back her way out of this conversation, but she could see no exit. She said a silent apology to Cormoran and plunged forward.

“I take it he didn’t tell you then,” she had meant her tone to sound light and jocular, but instead the words tumbled over her numb lips and fell flat at her feet.

“I was talking about the sleep demon,” Robin said slowly. “What were you talking about?”

“Same. That’s what I meant,” Ilsa said.

“No, you said ‘prophecy’. What about a prophecy?”

“Erm,” Ilsa twisted her hands uncomfortably, “You should probably talk to Corm about this.” 

The red and orange waves were beginning to swell again. The tremor around the edges of Robin’s form came alive once more and increased in frequency. A lead weight dropped into Ilsa’s stomach as she realized that she had no idea what Robin was or what might happen if she lost control, on which she already seemed to have a tenuous grasp. Ilsa cupped her hand behind her back, drawing in the power of the air around her, ready to defend against whatever power might burst forth from the woman in front of her. She wondered what reaction she would receive if she were to be caught murmuring a spell.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” she suggested hesitantly. 

Robin turned to the sofa and sat on the very edge, too wired to allow herself to sink into the comfortable cushions. While her face was turned away, Ilsa took the opportunity to whisper the calming spell again. She used the essence of the air she had collected to send the spell across the room to Robin. A faint breeze lifted the fine wisps of hair around Robin’s face, and Ilsa prayed she wouldn’t notice. Robin breathed a heavy sigh as the spell passed over her, and she flopped backwards against the cushions.

Robin turned her head to look at her, and Ilsa’s heart broke at the tears that were collecting in her eyes.

“What is he not telling me?”

Ilsa sighed, resigned to deliver the blow her friend should have dealt himself. She sat across from Robin and took a deep breath. “I really shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, but you should probably know, and as it doesn’t seem like he was planning to tell you anytime soon…” She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Ugh, he’s going to kill me for this. Sorry, bad choice of words,” she grimaced. 

“I’m assuming you’ve seen the bird on his chest?” she asked, and Robin nodded. “What did he tell you about it?”

“He said it was given to him by a Native American shaman because he helped their village. He also said that it gave him special abilities.”

“He didn’t tell you about the day it appeared?”

“No, why?”

Ilsa looked uncomfortable again. She checked over Robin’s aura quickly. The calming spell still seemed to be in effect, so she asked, “So you know about his visions?”

Robin nodded.

“Well, he had a vision when it appeared. The shaman performed some ceremony on him, which caused the vision. And then when the vision was over, the bird had appeared on his chest.”

“Yeah, he told me that already. He said it was of the day I first came to work for him, and that it meant we were supposed to find each other.”

“But I take it he didn’t tell you what happened next. The shaman pointed to the bird and said…” she paused and looked at Robin, and changed her mind. “I really think it would be better if you heard this from Corm.”

“Ilsa, I’ve just come from one liar, who apparently had been keeping secrets from me for a long time. I want to know what he’s not telling me.”

“Alright,” Ilsa swallowed with difficulty. “The shaman pointed at the bird and said, ‘This one will end your curse and give you life. And you will... you will end hers.’ “

_ He’s hunting you.  _ Matthew’s words seemed to ring in Robin’s ears as Ilsa’s voice settled into every corner of her mind.  _ End hers...her life...hunting. _ It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Bile rose in her throat and she was powerless to hold it back. She ran to the bathroom under the stairs, barely making it before she vomited violently into the toilet, as if her stomach could expel the pain of her crumbling heart.

***

Strike was just exiting the tube across from the rugby field, Becks several meters in front of him, when his phone rang. He saw that it was Ilsa and declined the call. He took out his camera and snapped a few pictures as Becks was met by the same woman they had seen him with at the pub the other night. However, from the greeting he gave her, the woman could have been his sister. Strike snapped picture after picture anyway, following the pair inside the stadium. So Becks was in fact watching rugby, but that didn’t necessarily rule out an affair.

His phone rang again, and he huffed when he saw Ilsa’s name on the screen. He wasn’t exactly in the best position to answer a phone call, so he once again declined it. Almost before he could stuff the phone back into his pocket, it buzzed with a text.

**You should have told Robin about the prophecy, dickhead.**

Strike came to an abrupt stop, causing a woman behind him to collide with his broad back, knocking her backwards. 

“Shit!” he exclaimed, hardly noticing the intrusion. His rough, deep voice caused the woman to scurry around him in alarm, keeping her head down. Looking up, he realized he had lost Becks in the crowd. “Fuck me,” he grunted, and he turned back the way he had come, his bulk easily parting the sea of people bustling towards the entrance of the stadium.

When he was far enough removed from the crowd, he opened his phone and called not Ilsa, but Robin. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer, there was a click and he was met with silence, though he thought he heard her sniff.

“Robin? I’m sorry, Robin, I should have told you. I was going to tell you.”

Silence. 

“Can we talk about this? Where are you, are you at the flat?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was quiet. The noise from passing cars and pedestrians made it difficult to interpret her tone.

“I’d rather talk about this in person. Where are you?” He was already entering the tube station, hurrying down towards the platform.

“Nick and Ilsa’s,” came Robin’s quiet reply.

“I’m on my way. Just don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” He could hear the pain and the loneliness in her voice, and his heart ached for the hurt he had caused her.

“I’ll be right there,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly.

***

“I’m so sorry, Corm, I didn’t realize you hadn’t told her, and then she showed up here,” Ilsa began as she opened the door to let him inside.

“It’s fine,” he said, hardly listening to her. 

He could feel a pull toward the back garden, his fluttering bird mark guiding him like a compass. He stepped swiftly around Ilsa and strode through to the kitchen. He paused at the patio door to collect himself. Robin was seated in one of the wrought iron chairs, her arms wrapped around her shins, resting her chin on her knees. He slid the door open and stepped out into the warm sunlight. It stung against his skin, but he ignored it.

“Robin,” his voice caught in his throat. All the words he had practiced on the train suddenly died on his tongue. He took in the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks, the slight flush on her neck indicating a level of anger that still remained. She looked eerily calm, however, as she turned her head to look at him.

He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. “I’m so sorry, Robin, I should have told you.”

“Told me what? That you have to kill me?” 

He took a step towards her, wanting nothing more than to wrap her in his arms. But he saw her flinch infinitesimally, heard a flash of fear in her mind, and he stopped. He heard a thought dancing through her mind, a memory of someone else’s voice.  _ He’s hunting you.  _

“No! God no, Robin. I would never hurt you. Please believe that,” he pleaded.

“Then there’s not some prophecy that says you’re going to end my life? I lived with a liar for many years, Cormoran. I won’t continue to be lied to.”

“Robin, I didn’t know how to tell you. I was going to, I swear that I was. I just hadn’t found the right words yet. I didn’t want to - “

“Didn’t want to what? Scare me? Hurt me? I thought we already went over this, you don’t have to protect me. Why didn’t you tell me then? You had the chance this morning, and you didn’t. Were you afraid I wouldn’t stay?”

Strike scrubbed a hand through his hair and stepped cautiously towards the other patio chair. Robin didn’t move, which he took as permission to sit.

“You want the truth?” he asked, and she nodded solemnly. “Alright, yeah, there was a prophecy. I take it you know what it said?” She nodded again. “I’m not going to end your life, Robin. I could never do that. And no, I didn’t want to scare you. I’m a monster, I know that. I was afraid that if you found out… yeah, I was afraid you’d leave. And maybe it’s selfish, but I didn't want to lose you. I lo- I care about you, a lot. That’s why I have Ilsa trying to find a way around it.” 

He wanted desperately to reach out and take her hand, but her frosty demeanor kept him at bay.

“What if she can’t?” Robin asked matter-of-factly.

“Then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” Robin heard the conviction in his voice, heard the truth in his words, but she couldn’t quite let go of the doubt that had invaded her mind.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with sorrow.

“I don’t know. I want to, but I don’t know.” Robin knew that she would forgive him, that she had already, in fact. She knew the prophecy wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked for it, and she believed that he would never hurt her. Ilsa had already explained to her that she was trying to find a way to reverse it. But still, she feared that this wouldn’t end well for her. She wasn’t concerned for her physical safety, but for giving her heart away and being betrayed by another man. She had made so many mistakes in trusting Matthew. She didn’t want to repeat them. 

Strike nodded, accepting not only her words, but her thoughts. “I’ll understand if you want to stay here for a while. Night Walkers can’t enter a witch’s home without permission, so all Ilsa has to do is revoke my invitation, in case...you know, in case you decide you don’t want me around.”

A corner of his mouth pulled up in a cheeky grin, trying to lighten the mood. Robin smiled weakly. She appreciated the joke, but she was more touched by him giving her an out. He didn’t have to tell her how to keep him away, but he had. With this one tiny piece of information, he had given her a sense of safety and control. Even though doubt still niggled at the back of her mind, she had to admit that she had always felt at peace in Strike’s presence, something she had never experienced with any other man. Was that because she truly could trust him? Or was it as Matthew had said, that it was in the nature of a Night Walker to gain the trust of their victims? She wanted to believe it was the former. Deep in her heart, she knew she could trust him, but she still reminded herself to proceed with caution.

Emboldened by her slight softening, Strike reached out a hand to grasp hers. Her skin was smooth and warm against his, and he heard her sharp intake of breath at the sparks that ignited where they touched. 

“Thank you,” she thought, and he squeezed her hand in response, twining their fingers together. 

***

Strike left before dinner, so that Robin could have some space to herself. Her mind had waffled back and forth between wanting him to stay and wanting him to go, so he had made the decision easy for her by saying he had things he needed to do at the office. He was pleased, however, when she walked him to the door to see him out. He thought of hugging her, or kissing her on the cheek, but he saw Robin’s eyes widen marginally, so he didn’t. Instead, he took her hand tenderly in both of his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her other hand fluttered in the space between them, as if she had thought about pressing it to the bird on his chest, but then it fell back to her side.

“Goodnight, Robin,” he murmured, and released her hand, turning swiftly to let himself out. Robin watched through the window as he made his way down the stairs and towards the tube, a slight limp altering his gait.


End file.
